V i~  - 


PEN   PICTURES: 


OB, 


SKETCHES  FROM  DOMESTIC  LIFE, 


MRS.    M     A^LIVERMORE, 


CHICAGO: 

C.  GRIGGS  &  CO.,  39  AND  41  LAKE  STREET. 
1862. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1862,  by 

D.  P.  LIVERMORE, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  Northern  District  of  the 
State  of  Illinois. 


S.  &  A.  EMERSON,  Printers 
174  South  Clark  Street. 


Bancroft  Library 


CONTENTS. 


THE  LIFE-LONG  SACRIFICE, 9 

THE  SALE  OF  THE  HOMESTEAD, 41 

THE  HOUSE  OF  REST, 72 

THE  SEWING  SOCIETY, 73 

LA  PUEBLO  DE  LOS  ANGELOS, 100  X 

LOST  AND  FOUND, 104 

THE  RACE  WITH  THE  MILL-STREAM, 134 

THE  MISSION  OF  SORROW, 148 

THE  LAST  JEWEL, 183 

THE  FIRST  QUARREL, 185 

THE  TEMPLE  IN  THE  SKY, 211 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  MOONLIGHT, 215 


THE  LIFE-LONG  SACRIFICE. 


The  summer  sun  had  just  dipped  below 
the  horizon,  leaving  its  track  adown  the  west 
ern  sky,  glorious  and  golden.  The  air  was 
quivering  with  the  thousand  songs  of  birds, 
perfume  was  beginning  to  exhale  from  the 
now  reviving  flowers,  and  from  the  valleys 
and  water-courses  a  cool  mist  was  wreathing 
upward,  like  the  very  breath  of  evening.  On 
the  low  door-stone  of  an  humble  dwelling, 
around  which  clustered  a  profusion  of  red 
and  white  rose-trees,  while  sweet-briar  clam 
bered  over  the  door,  and  morning-glories  and 
blue-bells  curtained  the  windows,  sat  two 
children  —  a  brother  and  sister  —  both  bend 
ing  over  the  same  crumbled  and  torn  bit  of 
newspaper,  which  they  were  eagerly  reading. 
The  sister,  who  might  have  seen  fourteen 
summers,  and  who  sat  with  her  arm  about 
her  brother's  neck  —  a  lad  some  two  or  three 
years  her  junior  —  was,  even  at  that  early 
and  immature  age,  a  noble  and  queenly  crea- 

3 


10  THE    LIFE-LONG    SACRIFICE. 

ture.  Underneath  a  broad  and  massive 
brow,  beamed  large,  dark,  fathomless  eyes, 
that  would  have  given  beauty  to  the  home 
liest  face.  Her  cheek  was  clear,  and  almost 
transparent ;  her  mouth  finely  cut,  and  very 
sweet  in  its  expression  ;  while  from  her  face 
there  beamed  an  earnest,  wishful,  appealing 
look,  mingled  with  a  pensiveness  that  seemed 
to  indicate  that  she  had  already  tasted  of  the 
bitterness  of  life.  The  most  careless  ob 
server  would  have  perceived,  immediately, 
that  the  young  girl  was  endowed  with  re 
markable  talents ;  while  nicer  discriminators 
would  have  beheld  the  lofty  powers  of  soul 
within  that  were  struggling  for  development, 
immense  mental  energies,  restless  for  lack  of 
employment,  and  a  sensitive,  highly  gifted 
spirit,  destined  to  accomplish  much  of  good 
or  evil,  as  circumstances  or  fate  should  de 
cree. 

The  brother  was  a  being  very  much  after 
the  order  of  his  sister ;  the  same  regal  brow 
and  glorious  eyes  bespoke  their  common 
parentage.  There  was  on  his  face  a  less 
sorrowful  and  thoughtful  look ;  for  a  less 
sensitive  organization  was  his,  and,  as  yet, 
his  inner  nature,  unlike  his  sister's,  had  not 
commenced  a  warfare  with  his  outward  cir- 


THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE.  11 

cumstances.  While  he  thirsted  for  knowl 
edge,  as  for  water,  he  also  found  delight  in 
the  sports  of  his  age,  and  entered  with  zest 
into  all  the  pastimes  of  boyhood. 

They  were  now  seated  side  by  side,  uncon 
scious  of  all  around  them,  eagerly  devouring 
the  fragmentary  knowledge  of  the  torn  pa 
per.  It  was  one  of  a  series  of  "  Letters  from 
the  South  of  Europe,"  on  which  they  had 
chanced  to  light ;  and,  as  they  followed  the 
voyageur  through  desolated  Greece,  and  sto 
ried  Rome,  and  the  land  of  Moorish  and 
Christian  valor,  their  hearts  glowed  within 
them,  and  their  countenances  became  radiant 
with  enthusiasm.  And  yet,  every  moment 
or  two,  a  cloud,  a  puzzled  expression,  passed 
over  their  faces,  and  the  sister  sighed  and 
seemed  troubled  ;  and,  at  last,  ere  the  article 
was  completed,  as  if  vexed  to  the  soul,  she 
pushed  the  paper  from  her,  and  burst  out, 
impatiently  and  petulantly, — 

"  Oh,  dear !  it's  of  no  use  to  read  any  fur 
ther,  Henry;  we  can't  understand  half  we 
are  reading.  What  is  the  'Decameron  of 
Boccaccio;'  and  who,  or  what,  are  Dante, 
and  Ariosto,  and  Tasso,  and  Petrarch,  and 
Cervantes  ?  It  's  nothing  but  vexation !" 
And  she  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  pushed 

2s 


12  THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE. 

back  the  paper,  as  though  greatly  annoyed. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  brother,  in  the  same 
vexed  tone,  "  and  just  look  here,  on  the  other 
page,  Emily.  Here  is  a  c  Critical  Notice  of 
Jean  Paul  Richter,'  that  we  had  better  not 
undertake  to  read.  Just  look  at  the  names 
lugged  into  it  —  Goethe,  Schiller,  Klopstock, 
and  —  and  —  but  I  won't  try  to  pronounce 
them.  It  is,  as  you  say,  only  vexation  for  us 
to  read  anything,  for  we  are  everlastingly 
stumbling  over  something  we  don't  under 
stand!" 

"  Only  yesterday,  when  I  was  reading  a 
simple  story  in  that  Philadelphia  paper  you 
borrowed,  I  found  something  in  it  about  the 
'poisoned  shirt  of  Nessus,'  and  the  *  wakeful 
bird  of  Pallas,'  that  spoilt  the  whole  for  me. 
I  had  as  lief  try  to  read  Greek." 

"And  I  should  like  to  see  the  book  or 
paper,  that  is  n't  brimful  of  such  names  as 
Lear,  Macbeth,  Falstaff,  Hamlet,  and  so  on  ; 
they  stare  you  in  the  face,  let  you  take  up 
what  you  may.  Do  you  suppose  we  shall 
ever  find  out  what  they  mean,  Emily  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  I  don't  know,"  sighed  the  sis 
ter  ;  "  sometimes  mother  can  inform  us  about 
what  we  are  ignorant ;"  and,  acting  on  her 
own  suggestion,  she  pushed  open  the  door 


THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE.  13 

of  the  humble  room  within,  that  served  for 
both  parlor  and  kitchen,  and  leaning  back 
from  the  door-step,  said,  "Mother,  Henry 
and  I  are  reading  an  old  paper  that  we  've 
found;  there  is  something  in  it  about  Pe 
trarch  and  Laura,  and  Dante  and  Beatrice, 
and  Tasso :  can  you  tell  us  anything  about 
them?" 

Mrs.  Holden  rose,  with  sewing  in  hand, 
and  came  to  the  door.  She  was  an  uncom 
monly  intelligent  looking  woman,  with  a 
broad,  clear,  high  brow,  overhanging  her 
pale  face,  which,  though  full  of  sweetness, 
bore  the  traces  of  sorrow  and  suffering.  Af 
ter  seeing  the  mother,  one  would  cease  to 
wonder  at  the  noble  expansion  of  brow,  the 
soul-full  eyes,  and  the  expression  of  loveli 
ness,  that  marked  the  children  in  an  unusual 
and  peculiar  manner.  She  bent  over  her 
daughter  for  an  instant,  and  then  replied : 

"No,  my  dear,  I  can  tell  you  nothing 
about  them.  There  was  less  thought  about 
education,  when  I  was  youn£,  than  there  is 
now  ;  and  my  parents,  like  your  mother,  were 
too  poor  to  send  me  to  school  a  great  deal." 

"We  cannot  understand  more  than  half 
we  read,"  said  Emily,  sorrowfully,  "just  be 
cause  of  our  ignorance.". 


14  THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE. 

"  If  your  father  had  lived,"  said  Mrs.  Hoi- 
den,  compassionately,  "  you  would  have  had 
opportunities  for  education  that  are  denied 
you  now.  He  thought  a  great  deal  of  a  good 
education." 

"  Ah  me !"  sighed  Emily,  in  deep  despond 
ency,  "  if  we  were  only  rich  !" 

The  mother  made  no  reply,  but  a  deeper 
shade  of  sadness  mantled  her  fine  features, 
and  she  gazed  down  sorrowfully  on  her  noble 
children.  A  tear  trickled  silently  down  the 
cheek  of  Emily,  another  and  then  another 
followed,  and  presently  she  was  in  an  agony 
of  tears.  Mrs.  Holden  stooped  down,  and 
drew  her  tenderly  to  her  bosom,  and  while 
she  endeavored  to  soothe  her,  mingled  her 
tears  with  her  daughter's.  Henry  also 
sought  to  administer  consolation,  in  an  awk 
ward  way,  and  struggled  manfully  to  keep 
back  the  tears  that  from  sympathy,  would 
fain  have  deluged  his  cheek. 

Mrs.  Holden  allowed  her  daughter  to  weep 
unrestrainedly.  When  she  became  calm 
again,  and  had  raised  once  more  her  head 
from  her  mother's  bosom,  her  eyelids  yet 
wet  with  tears,  the  mother  endeavored  to 
speak  to  the  sensitive  girl  words  of  content 
ment  and  hope. 


THE    LIFE-LONG    SACEIFICE.  15 

"  You  must  not  lay  your  poverty  and  igno 
rance  so  sorely  to  heart,  Emily,"  she  said, 
tenderly.  "  A  way  may  yet  be  opened,  by 
which  your  desires  for  knowledge  will  be 
gratified ;  make  the  most  of  what  you  have, 
and  that  will  pave  the  way  for  more.  *  God 
helps  those  who  help  themselves,'  you  know." 

"  Yes,  mother,"  said  Emily,  her  eyes  shin 
ing  through  her  tears,  as  if  a  new  thought 
had  flashed  into  her  mind ;  "  there  is  another 
saying  that  I  often  call  to  mind :  *  Get  thy 
spindle  and  distaff  ready,  and  God  will  send 
the  flax.'  Now  I  am  sure  my  spindle  and 
distaff  are  ready,"  she  continued,  smiling, 
"  and  I  am  only  waiting  for  the  flax." 

"  Here  's  another,  better  than  either,"  said 
Henry,  with  animation ;  "  it  ought  to  make 
us,  poor  things,  pluck  up  courage.  I  think 
of  it  every  day,  and  I  always  feel  better  for 
remembering  it.  *  Where  there 's  a  will, 
there  's  a  way  !'  Now,  I  'm  nothing  but  a 
poor  boy,  to  be  sure,  but  I  've  a  great  desire 
to  be  an  educated  man ;  and, — you  may  smile, 
mother,  as  much  as  you  please,  —  educated 
I  will  be !  I  may  be  twenty,  thirty,  or  forty 
years  old,  before  I  go  to  college  —  but  go 
there  I  will,  if  not  till  I'm  old  as  Methusaleh." 

"  Yes,  and  you  '11  not  be  thirty,  nor  yet 


16  THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE. 

twenty  years  old,  before  you  enter  college, 
poor  and  humble  little  boy  as  you  now  are !" 
said  Emily,  with  enthusiasm.  "I  am  sure 
God  will  provide  for  us.  What  did  Mr.  Ea 
ton  say,  last  Sabbath,  in  his  sermon  ?  '  Has 
God  given  us  the  desire  for  improvement, 
and  will  he  not  place  the  means  in  our  pow 
er?'  That  sentence  fell  into  my  heart  like  a 
ray  of  sunlight  into  a  dark  place.  I  said  to 
myself,  'Be  of  good  cheer  ;  God  has  certain 
ly  given  thee  the  desire  for  improvement,  and 
in  his  own  good  time,  He  will  certainly  send 
thee  the  means?  And  I  am  sure  He  will, 
mother;  just  as  sure  as  though  I  had  heard 
it  promised  with  an  audible  voice." 

Mrs.  Holden  looked  almost  sorrowfully  on 
the  rapt  face  of  her  enthusiastic  child,  for 
she  could  divine  no  way  by  which  her  dar 
ling  wish  was  to  be  gratified ;  she  forbore, 
however,  to  crush  the  hope  that  for  the  mo 
ment  inspired  her,  and  gradually  changed 
the  conversation  to  other  subjects. 

During  the  next  few  days,  both  Mrs.  Hol 
den  and  Henry  observed  that  Emily  was 
much  occupied  in  her  own  thoughts,  and 
conversed  even  less  than  usual.  She  seemed 
occupied  in  some  scheme  or  plan  of  her  own, 
and  made  several  visits  to  the  post-office  of 


THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE.  17 

the  little  village,  a  mile  distant.  No  ques 
tions  were  asked,  for  Emily  seemed  to  desire 
secrecy,  and  Mrs.  Holden  believed  she  would 
eventually  confide  to  her  her  plans  and  pur 
poses.  Nor  was  she  mistaken.  As  the  good 
lady  sat  quietly  at  work,  a  few  days  after 
wards,  Emily  darted  up  the  grassy  yard,  and, 
breathless  with  haste  and  excitement,  held 
before  her  mother's  eyes  a  letter,  bearing  her 
own  address,  the  very  first  she  had  ever 
received. 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Hol 
den,  calmly. 

"Why,  it  means,  mother,  that  on  Monday 
I  am  going  to  take  the  first  step  towards 
educating  myself  and  Henry,"  replied  Emily, 
with  a  glowing  cheek,  and  a  dilated  eye. 

"What,  my  dear?" 

"  Well,  mother,  I  empowered  Anna  Stone, 
who  works  in  a  cotton  factory,  in  Massachu 
setts,  you  know,  to  obtain  a  situation  for  me, 
on  her  return.  Here  is  her  letter,  informing 
me  that  I  must  be  in  Lowell  next  week." 

"  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  the  educa 
tion  of  Henry  and  yourself  ?" 

"  Much — everything.  After  I  have  earned 
enough  to  defray  the  expense,  I  shall  go,  for 
a  time,  to  some  good  school  —  then  return  to 


18  THE    LIFE-LONG    SACRIFICE. 

the  factory  and  earn  more  —  further  than 
that,  the  vision  doth  not  now  extend.  But  I 
shall  surely  be  guided  along  in  the  best  way. 
'  God  helps  those  who  help  themselves,'  you 
told  me,  the  other  night.  How  do  you  like 
my  plan  ?" 

"I  do  not  like  it  at  all;  for  its  operation 
will  remove  from  me  my  only  daughter,  will 
deprive  Henry  of  his  only  sister,  and  will 
consign  you  to  long,  weary  days  of  drudgery 
and  ceaseless  labor.  But  I  will  not  oppose 
it,  and  in  efforts  at  self-improvement,  may 
God  bless  you !" 

"  Oh,  a  thousand  thanks,  dear  mother !  ten 
thousand,  thousand  thanks!"  and  Emily  threw 
her  arms  alternately  about  her  mother  and 
brother. 

"And  now,  I  do  verily  believe  that  our 
prospects  are  beginning  to  brighten  —  that 
this  will  be  an  epoch  in  our  history  —  that 
you  and  I,  Henry,  can  begin  to  free  our 
selves  from  our  fetters  of  ignorance ;"  and 
with  her  brilliant  eyes,  and  glowing  cheeks, 
and  dilated  figure,  she  seemed  another  Pyth- 
ia,  speaking  the  oracle  of  a  god. 

Mrs.  Holden  smiled  at  her  enthusiasm. 
"  Do  not  be  too  sanguine,  my  dear  child  ! 
An  oak  is  not  felled  by  one  blow.  A  young 


THE    LIFE-LONG    SACRIFICE.  19 

girl,  like  you,  cannot  expect,  in  many  years, 
to  earn  sufficient  to  defray  the  expenses  of 
your  own  and  your  brother's  education." 

But  Emily  still  seemed  inspired  with  the 
largest  hope,  and  she  replied,  in  a  tone  full 
of  confidence,  "  We  '11  see,  dear  mother, 
we'll  see!" 

From  her  very  infancy,  Emily  Hoiden  had 
been  noticed  for  her  uncommon  mental  pre 
cocity.  All  bore  witness  to  the  fact,  that 
she  possessed  intellectual  gifts  worthy  the 
highest  culture.  But  the  iron  hand  of  pov 
erty  pressed  hard  upon  her.  Her  father, 
who  was  a  poor  man,  had  died  in  her  infan 
cy,  and  Mrs.  Hoiden,  whose  sole  dependence 
was  her  husband's  labor,  was  left  to  rear  as 
she  could  her  infant  daughter,  and  a  son  a 
few  weeks  old.  Their  residence  was  in  a 
small,  poor,  out-of-the-way  town,  in  a  state 
at  that  time  more  unfriendly  than  any  other 
of  the  New  England  states  to  the  cause  of 
education.  After  Emily  had  advanced  to 
the  very  highest  point  that  the  miserable 
apology  for  a  school  supported  by  the  dis 
trict  could  carry  her,  there  seemed  an  end  to 
all  further  progress.  There  was  no  high 
school  in  the  town,  no  private  school,  and 
the  idea  of  normal  schools  was  then  hardly 


20  THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE. 

broached.  But  it  was  not  in  the  nature  of  a 
mind  like  Emily's  to  rest  satisfied  in  igno 
rance.  She  was  constantly  in  quest  of 
knowledge;  and,  unfavorable  as  were  her 
circumstances,  not  a  day  passed  that  she  did 
not  add  to  her  slender  stock  of  facts  and 
ideas. 

The  feverish  and  inordinate  thirst  of  her 
spirit  for  progress  being  ungratified,  she  be 
came  restless,  moody,  and  discontented. 
Already  life  had  become  a  mystery  to  her ; 
there  were  times  when  it  was  distasteful ;  her 
spiritual  aspirations  were  so  at  variance  with 
her  outward  circumstances,  that  she  some 
times  wondered  what  there  was  in  life  pleas 
ing,  and  looked  wearily  forward  to  the  years 
of  the  future.  The  ordinary  pursuits  of  girls 
of  her  age  became  so  vapid  and  inane,  that 
she  never  engaged  in  them,  and  even  shrank 
from  companionship  with  her  young  friends ; 
and  Mrs.  Hoiden  saw,  with  alarm,  that  Emily 
was  suffering  mentally  and  physically,  with 
out  being  able  to  devise  a  remedy  for  her. 
It  was  this,  which  led  her  to  accede  more 
cheerfully  to  her  departure  from  home.  She 
thought  a  change  might  prove  beneficial  to 
her,  and,  therefore,  without  entering  into  any 
of  Emily's  magnificent  plans  for  the  future, 


* 
THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE.  21 

she  consented  to  her  entering  on  the  weary 
ing  life  of  a  factory  girl. 

The  next  Monday  morning,  therefore, 
witnessed  Emily's  departure  to  Lowell,  as 
different  a  place  from  the  town  of  her  nativ 
ity,  as  could  well  be  imagined.  Here  she 
found  facilities  for  mental  culture,  beyond 
what  she  had  dreamed  of  possessing  any 
where  outside  the  walls  of  a  literary  institu 
tion.  Books,  periodicals,  and  newspapers, 
were  all  about  her;  circulating  and  Sabbath 
school  libraries  were  at  her  command ;  lec 
tures  from  able  men  were  of  weekly  occur 
rence;  and,  in  addition,  she  soon  secured 
the  services  of  a  teacher,  to  whom  she  went 
nightly  for  instruction.  By  means  of  the 
closest  economy  of  time,  she  found  much 
leisure  for  mental  cultivation.  She  allowed 
herself  no  recreation ;  she  curtailed  the 
hours  of  sleep,  and  applying  herself  assid 
uously,  and  learning  almost  intuitively,  her 
progress  was  astonishingly  rapid.  Even  the 
short  half  hour  devoted  to  meals  was  abridg 
ed  by  her;  and  often,  when  some  of  her  gid 
dy  companions  returned  home  from  a  dance 
or  a  party,  near  day-dawning,  they  would 
find  her  absorbed  in  study,  and  bowed  over 
her  books. 


I 
22  THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE. 

In  this  way  she  passed  six  months — labor 
ing,  during  the  day,  to  the  very  utmost  of 
her  ability,  and  studying,  at  night,  with  all 
the  intensity  of  her  soul  —  when,  finding  that 
the  gains  she  had  hoarded  in  a  most  miserly 
way  were  sufficient  to  carry  her  through  two 
terms  of  a  female  seminary,  at  some  little 
distance,  of  whose  celebrity  she  had  heard 
much  during  her  factory  life,  she  prepared 
to  return  home.  The  town  of  Lowell  had 
proved  a  fortunate  place  to  her.  She  had 
made  extraordinary  progress  in  self-culture, 
under  the  circumstances ;  had  lost  much  of 
the  rusticity,  awkwardness  and  shyness  of 
her  manner;  had  won  many  friends,  and  had 
gained  a  full  purse  to  assist  her  yet  further 
in  her  praiseworthy  exertions. 

Overjoyed  as  were  her  mother  and  brother 
to  fold  their  dear  one  to  their  hearts,  they 
were  painfully  startled  by  her  changed  ap 
pearance.  Her  large  eyes  looked  out  from 
beneath  her  massive  brow,  darker  and  larger 
than  ever  —  her  pale  cheeks  were  more  col 
orless,  and  very  thin.  The  application  of  the 
previous  six  months  had  been  too  intense  — 
the  spirit  had  worn  away  "  its  garment  of 
flesh." 

A  few  weeks  were  now  given  to  recrea- 


THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE.  23 

tlon,  and  to  the  society  of  her  mother  and 
brother,  to  whom  she  was  incessantly  pour 
ing  out  the  information  she  had  acquired 
during  her  absence.  As  the  hungry  devour 
food,  as  the  thirsty  drink  in  water,  so  did 
Henry  sit  at  her  feet,  and  devour  every  word 
that  fell  from  her  lips.  To  him,  she  had  be 
come  an  oracle.  She  seemed  completely 
transformed;  and  when  he  gathered  from 
her  lips  the  history  of  the  past  six  months, 
it  strengthened  his  resolution  to  climb  to 
the  very  highest  pinnacle  of  the  hill  of  sci 
ence. 

But  again  bidding  adieu  to  her  home, 
Emily  Holden  entered  the  far-famed  institu 
tion  of  learning  —  an  event  to  which  she  had 
long  looked  forward  with  eager  anticipation. 
The  position  she  here  took,  on  entering,  was 
by  no  means  an  inferior  one.  She  found 
herself  superior  to  most  of  her  age,  great  as 
had  been  her  disadvantages;  and  untiring, 
devoted,  enthusiastic  student  as  she  was,  she 
left  her  associates  every  day  further  in  the 
distance.  Her  fellow-students  looked  upon 
her  with  wonder ;  they  could  not  understand 
the  herculean  efforts  she  was  constantly  mak 
ing  to  comprehend  fully,  and  to  grasp  surely, 
every  branch  of  study  that  came  under  her 


24  THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE. 

observation.  To  her  teachers  she  was  a 
source  of  pride ;  they  saw  the  glorious  gifts 
of  the  noble  girl,  her  lofty  aim,  her  enduring 
purpose,  her  struggles  for  a  high  position  in 
the  world  of  mind  —  they  learned  her  his 
tory,  they  acquainted  themselves  with  her 
plans  and  wishes  —  and,  struck  with  admira 
tion  of  her  hallowed  ambition  for  herself  and 
brother,  they  offered  her  every  advantage 
the  institution  afforded,  in  its  every  depart 
ment,  for  such  service  as  she  could  consist 
ently  afford  them  in  teaching. 

Here  was  a  noble  opportunity  for  her ;  and 
so  well  was  it  improved,  that  a  year  had  not 
elapsed  before  she  was  one  of  the  board  of 
instruction,  with  a  full  salary.  The  trustees 
of  the  institution  foresaw  that  the  duties  of 
teaching  would  not  retard  the  progress  of  a 
soul  like  hers,  they  were  conscious  that  her 
talents  were  of  the  most  brilliant  order ;  they 
beheld  the  favorable  impression  she  made 
upon  all  who  visited  the  institution,  how 
easily  she  won  and  retained  the  love  of  her 
pupils,  how  apt  she  was  to  teach,  how  gentle 
in  governing;  and  from  the  sensation  some 
spirited  little  poems  of  hers  had  caused  in 
the  world  of  letters,  they  anticipated  for  her, 
if  she  chose  it,  a  brilliant  literary  career. 


THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE.  25 

They  were,  therefore,  eager  to  secure  her 
services,  at  even  a  high  compensation. 

And  now  a  settled  purpose  was  in  her 
heart,  though  the  desire  that  underlaid  it 
had  existed  there  for  years.  She  now  re 
solved,  at  any  and  every  sacrifice,  to  give 
her  brother  the  means  of  a  superior  educa 
tion.  She  instantly  placed  him  in  a  prepara 
tory  school,  though  the  expense  of  this 
would  consume,  per  annum,  three  fourths  of 
her  salary.  She  knew  that  her  brother's 
progress  would  draw  more  largely  on  her 
means ;  he  could  not  pass  through  college 
for  nothing ;  and  she  felt  it  imperative  upon 
her  to  prepare  for  this  exigency.  Large 
offers  from  the  southern  section  of  our  coun 
try  had  frequently  been  sent  to  teachers,  in 
the  institution  with  which  she  was  connect 
ed.  An  acquaintance  with  music  was  an 
important  desideratum  in  a  teacher  prepar 
ing  for  the  south,  and  she  now  bent  all  her 
powerful  energies  to  obtain  this  accomplish 
ment,  that  she  might  be  well  prepared  for 
the  next  lucrative  situation  that  offered  itself 
in  that  quarter.  As  usual,  success  crowned 
her  efforts ;  and  she  had  not  been  two  years 
a  teacher,  when  she  stood  at  the  head  of  a 
large  and  flourishing  academy,  in  a  southern 


26  THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE. 

city.  This  increased  income  placed  more 
ample  means  at  her  command,  and  Henry 
was  enabled  to  pursue  his  studies  without 
interruption. 

Once,  and  once  only,  did  she  blench  from 
the  austere  life  she  had  imposed  on  herself. 

In  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  her  res 
idence,  dwelt  a  wealthy  and  aristocratic  fam 
ily,  whose  especial  protegee  she  became,  im 
mediately  on  her  entrance  into  the  town. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grey  were  not  only  people  of 
wealth,  style  and  fashion,  but,  incredible  as 
it  may  seem,  they  were  also  kind  and  gentle- 
hearted,  intelligent  and  thoughtful,  and  dis 
posed  to  all  the  sweet  charities  of  life. 
They  were  at  first  attracted  towards  Emily 
by  the  peculiar  beauty  of  her  pale,  pensive 
face,  and  the  sweetness  of  her  manners ;  and 
afterwards  they  learned  to  love  her  for  her 
noble  self-forgetfulness,  for  her  cultivated 
mind,  and  easy  and  elegant  conversation. 

Scarcely  was  she  installed  in  their  kind  re 
gards,  when  Walter,  their  only  son,  came 
home  from  college,  on  a  visit.  Having  lived 
in  almost  monastic  seclusion,  while  pursuing 
his  studies,  he  had  formed  but  few  female 
acquaintances ;  and  Emily,  then  in  the  per 
fection  of  her  youthful  beauty,  burst  upon 


THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE.  27 

him,  like  the  vision  of  an  houri.  A  second 
and  third  visit  to  his  home  became  perilous 
to  both;  and  having  at  last  completed  his 
studies,  and  received  admittance  to  the  bar, 
he  returned  home  joyfully,  to  make  arrange 
ments  for  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  his 
native  town. 

Walter  now  sought  Emily's  society  as  stu 
diously  as  she  avoided  his;  and  while  the 
delicate  and  marked  homage  he  paid  her 
thrilled  her  inmost  being  with  a  wild  delight, 
and  infused  into  her  soul  a  heaven  of  happi 
ness,  it  yet  caused  her  the  most  poignant 
sorrow,  for  she  knew  how  hopeless  was  the 
affection  he  was  cherishing,  and  how  sad 
would  be  his  awakening  from  the  blissful 
dreams  he  was  indulging.  Moreover,  she 
saw  that,  highly  as  his  parents  esteemed  her, 
they  had  other  views  for  their  son  than  mar 
riage  with  a  governess ;  and  that,  while  she 
rose  daily  in  favor  with  one,  she  lost  caste 
with  the  other.  She,  therefore,  absented 
herself  more  and  more  from  the  mansion  of 
the  Greys,  and  wrapped  around  her,  more 
and  more  closely,  her  maidenly  reserve. 

One  evening,  she  was  sitting  alone,  sad 
and  weary.  She  had  been  thinking  long  and 
deeply  and  painfully.  The  conflict  within, 

3c 


2£  THE    LIFE-LOJSTG   SACRIFICE. 

between  love  and  duty,  was  not  yet  closed ; 
and,  for  the  first  time,  she  murmured  at  her 
destiny. 

Before  this  inward  struggle  was  over,  and 
while  yet  reasoning  her  rebellious  heart  to 
subjection,  Walter  Grey  was  with  her.  De 
spairing  of  meeting  her  accidentally,  he  had 
sought  an  interview,  to  declare  his  idolatroui 
affection,  and,  if  possible,  to  win  her  who 
had  become  the  light  of  his  life.  With  a 
saddened  heart,  Emily  listened  to  his  avowal 
of  love;  but,  though  deeply  moved,  she  gare 
a  firm  but  gentle  refusal  to  his  proposals. 
It  was  in  vain  that  he  sat  beside  her,  and 
urged  his  suit  till  the  evening  deepened  into 
night.  Although  he  drew  from  her  the  tear 
ful  confession  that  his  love  was  returned,  it 
availed  him  little ;  for,  at  the  same  moment, 
she  withdrew  her  hand  from  his  warm  clasp, 
declaring  that  she  had  already  chosen  her 
lot,  and  should  never  marry. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  penetrate  to 
the  reason  that  lay  behind  this  resolution,  or 
in  the  least  to  shake  it.  Emily,  though 
moved  to  the  very  soul,  was  firm.  The 
death  of  his  hopes  was  also  the  destruction 
of  her  dream  of  happiness ;  and  while  she 
was  putting  out  the  light  of  his  life,  she  was 


THE   LIFE-LONG   SACEIFICE.  29 

also  involving  herself  in  "  darkness  that 
could  be  felt "  —  and  yet  she  was  resolute, 
immovable.  She  feared  her  own  weakness, 
and  forbore  to  divulge  her  plans  for  her 
brother,  the  execution  of  which  would  re 
quire  of  her  yet  years  of  labor ;  nor  did  she 
allude  to  his  parents'  evident  dislike  of  their 
son's  preference — for  she  feared  he  might 
overcome  these  obstacles,  which  to  her 
were,  and,  she  thought,  ought  to  be,  insup 
erable. 

"  And  so  you  have  decided !"  said  Wal 
ter,  rising  to  leave ;  "  and  you  deliberately 
quench  the  dearest  hope  of  my  life,  and  turn 
back  the  only  rill  of  happiness  that  flows  for 
me!" 

An  expression  of  pain  darted  over  Emily's 
features. 

"You  say  that  you  love  me,  Emily;  but 
how  can  I  reconcile  this  assertion  with  your 
cruelty  ?  Oh,  Emily,"  he  urged,  passionate 
ly,  "  if  you  do  indeed  love  me,  take  back 
your  decision !" 

"  You  know  not  what  you  ask,"  answered 
Emily,  mournfully ;  "  you  know  not  what 
great  interests  are  wrapped  up  in  that  deci 
sion." 

"Emily,"  he   said   earnestly,   "have   you 


30  THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE. 

thought  that  you  will  not  always  be  vigorous 
and  young  and  self-sustained  as  now?" 

She  bowed,  in  assent. 

"  There  will  come  days,  by  and  by,  when 
health  will  fail,  and  friends  be  gone  —  when 
your  mother  will  slumber  in  the  church-yard, 
and  your  brother  be  so  involved  in  the  cares 
of  life,  so  entangled  by  new  ties  and  affec 
tions,  as  to  be  dead  to  you.  So  will  it  be 
with  other  friends.  You  alone,  if  you  per 
sist  in  your  decision,  will  be  without  new 
ties  and  friendships,  to  supply  those  that  will 
be  lost  to  you.  You  will  find  yourself  that 
most  desolate  of  all  beings,  a  lonely  woman, 
verging  into  old  age,  without  an  eye  to  look 
lovingly  upon  you,  a  voice  to  speak  cheer- 
ingly." 

Emily  wept. 

"  To  whom,  then,  will  you  turn  for  com 
fort,  or  support?  —  who  will  buoy  up  your 
sinking  heart,  and  smooth  your  rugged 
path?" 

"  Ah,  Walter,  have  you  forgotten  there  is 
a  God  in  heaven,  who  will  never  desert  the 
faithful  and  true  ?" 

"  No,  Emily,  but  we  need  earthly  friends  ; 
and  as  life  recedes,  and  death  draws  near, 
we  shall  need  sympathy  and  support  —  we 


THE    LIFE-LONG    SACRIFICE.  .   31 

shall  need  the  arms  of  love  about  us,  the 
comforts  of  affection!  Ah,  Emily,  it  re 
quires  a  brave  heart  to  go  through  life  alone 
—  a  strong  heart !  Have  you  thought  of  all 
these  things  ?" 

"Yes." 

"And  yet  you  accept  this  lonely  lot  as 
yours  ?" 

"  It  is  not  mine  to  refuse  it." 

"  You  will  not  yield  it,  even  for  me  ?" 

"I  may  not  —  I  dare  not!" 

"You  deceive  yourself — you  deceive  me, 
Emily  —  you  do  not  love  me !" 

A  fresh  burst  of  grief  came  from  her  heart, 
and  she  sobbed,  "Forbear,  forbear,  Wal 
ter  !" 

He  rose,  and  took  her  hand.  "Forgive 
me,"  he  said ;  "  I  am  excited  and  wretched. 
I  do  you  wrong.  Ah,  how  desolate  will  life 
be  now! — you  will  suffer  —  we  must  both 
be  miserable  —  and  why,  I  cannot  under 
stand.  Farewell !  — I  shall  see  you  no  more. 
Qod  bless  you,  Emily  !  God  bless  us  both  !" 
And  wringing  her  hand  wildly,  he  rushed 
from  the  room. 

With  a  low  cry  of  anguish,  Emily  reached 
out  her  arms  as  if  to  detain  him,  and  then 
sank  down  upon  the  seat  from  which  she  had 


32  THE   LIFE-LONG    SACKIFICE. 

risen,  while  the  agony  of  her  soul  rolled  over 
her.  How  inexpressibly  her  heart  yearned 
after  him,  whose  pleas  for  love  she  had  re 
fused  ;  and  how  desolate,  how  reft  of  all 
hope  and  light,  loomed  up  before  her  the 
years  to  come  ! 

There  are  struggles  which  exhaust  years 
of  life,  and  leave  us  almost  callous  to  all 
after  trial.  Of  this  nature  was  the  struggle 
through  which  Emily  passed.  Time,  the 
pressure  of  care  and  duty,  and  her  own 
strong  mind  and  heart,  eventually  carried 
her  through  this  "  Slough  of  Despond ;"  but 
the  vigor,  enthusiasm,  and  elasticity  of  her 
spirit  were  gone,  and  she  had  then  a  "heart 
for  any  fate."  She  again  moved  on  in  the 
discharge  of  duties,  seeking  happiness  in  the 
resources  of  her  mind  and  heart,  in  letters 
from  home,  and  in  the  improvement  of  her 
pupils,  to  whom  she  was  an  object  of  affec 
tion  and  reverence. 

Twelve  years  thus  passed  away,  their 
monotony  only  broken  by  one  visit  to  he«r 
early  home,  and  widowed  mother.  By  her 
untiring  efforts,  she  had  raised  the  academy 
over  which  she  presided  to  the  highest  rank; 
she  had  earned  an  enviable  reputation  as  a 
teacher,  while  her  name  was  never  men- 


THE    LIFE-LONG    SACRIFICE.  33 

tioned  but  with  encomiums  by  the  magazine- 
reading  public.  Her  ceaseless  labor,  and, 
more  than  all,  the  fiery  ordeal  through  which 
she  had  passed,  had  wrought  sad  ravages  on 
her  physical  being;  and  even  those  accus 
tomed  to  her  pale  face  and  large  dark  eyes 
were  at  times  startled  by  the  ghastliness  of 
her  cheek,  and  the  hollowness  of  the  lustrous 
orbs  that  burned  beneath  her  brow. 

Meanwhile,  Henry  had  graduated  with  the 
highest  honors  ;  and  then,  at  his  sister's  earn 
est  request,  who  represented  herself  abun 
dantly  able  to  furnish  funds  for  an  extensive 
and  protracted  tour,  he  traveled  in  Europe 
and  the  East,  for  two  or  three  years.  Ap 
preciating  the  kindness  of  his  sister,  Henry 
was  stirred  to  flie  depths  of  his  soul  with 
gratitude ;  and  despatched  to  her,  from  every 
possible  point  of  his  tour,  graphic  sketches 
of  all  that  interested  him,  making  copious 
entries  in  his  note-book,  where  he  omitted  or 
failed  in  letter-writing.  Noble  in  person, 
glorious  in  mental  endowment,  rich  in  cul 
ture,  improved  by  travel  and  communion 
with  the  world,  he  returned  home,  where  the 
editorial  duties  of  a  periodical,  long  famous 
in  the  world  of  letters,  were  laid  upon  him, 
and  soon  afterwards  he  was  elected  to  a  pro- 


34  THE    LIFE-LONG    SACRIFICE. 

fessorship  in  a  newly  organized  college,  in 
one  of  the  Western  states. 

Having  achieved  the  dearest  wish  of  her 
heart,  and  placed  her  brother  in  a  position 
where  his  influence  was  widely  felt,  and 
where  his  cultivated  powers  had  a  legitimate 
sphere  of  action  —  having  also  secured  to  her 
mother  possession  of  the  little  homestead 
which  had  passed  out  of  her  hands  —  Emily 
Holden's  thoughts  turned  to  her  early  home, 
and  her  fond  and  aged  parent.  She  had 
struggled  bravely  with  life,  and  her  earnest 
spirit  was  repaid  for  its  efforts,  by  the  glori 
ous  consummation  it  had  achieved.  But  her 
spirit  now  was  weary,  and  sighed  for  repose. 
True  to  her  self-sacrificing,  unselfish  nature, 
she  thought  of  her  distant  mother,  whose  sun 
was  declining,  the  sands  of  whose  life  were 
well-nigh  spent ;  and  continuing  to  seek  her 
happiness  in  that  of  others,  she  despatched 
to  her  the  following  letter,  unfolding  her 
plans  and  hopes  for  the  future : 

"  Give  me  joy,  dear  mother !  for  my  days  of  exile 
are  nearly  accomplished,  and  my  steps  will  soon  be 
turned  homeward.  In  a  few  days,  I  shall  resign  my 
charge  here ;  and  then,  farewell  to  the  land  of  birds 
and  flowers  and  sunshine,  and  hence  for  bleak  and 
rocky  New  England,  the  home  of  my  heart. 

1  am  coming  home,  dear  mother,  to  do  what  I  can 
to  render  the  evening  of  your  days  pleasant.  I  have 


THE    LIFE-LONG    SACRIFICE.  35 

many  a  sweet  anticipation  of  the  happy  hours  I  shall 
spend  with  you,  in  telling  you  of  the  past,  in  talking 
of  the  majestic  genius  of  our  dear  Henry  —  God 
bless  him !  —  whose  motto  is  '  Excelsior !'  and  who 
is  doing  so  much  good  in  the  world. 

The  days  have  been  when  your  arm  gave  ine  sup 
port,  when  your  hand  guided  me,  when  your  powers 
were  taxed  for  my  amusement;  but  now,  I  am  going 
to  '  turn  the  tables,'  and  you  shall  be  the  supported, 
1  the  supporter  —  you  the  guided,  /the  leader.  To 
gether  we  will  spend  the  long  evenings,  —  you  occu 
pied  with  your  knitting,  I  with  my  sewing,  or  in 
reading  to  you.  You  shall  lean  on  my  arm  to 
church ;  you  shall  sit  still  and  behold  me  engage  in 
the  domestic  employments  of  my  youth,  which  I 
have  not  wholly  forgotten.  Our  little  cottage  shall 
be  made  to  look  cheery  and  cosy  within,  through 
the  aid  of  light  paint,  paper,  and  scrupulous  clean 
liness;  while  without  it,  we  will  teach  flowers  to 
bloom,  and  birds  to  sing.  Occasionally,  Henry  will 
come  to  us,  in  all  the  glory  of  his  ripe  and  exalted 
manhood ;  and  then  heaven  will  come  down  to  us, 
and  we  shall  need  no  other  happiness.  Oh,  mother, 
is  it  possible  ihat  I  shall  realize  these  sweet  antici 
pations  —  that  such  summery  days  will  come  to  me, 
when  life  seems  now  one  long,  unsunned  winter  ?  I 
have  so  long  sojourned  with  strangers,  that  to  throw 
my  arm  around  my  mother's  neck,  and  to  lean  my 
head  on  her  bosom  —  to  hear  her  dear  voice  lovingly 
pronounce  my  name,  and  to  see  her  dim  eyes  gazing 
fondly  into  my  own  —  seems  a  bliss  sweet  beyond 
comparison.  I  have  so  long  buffeted  the  storms  of 
life  and  been  lifted  upon  its  waves,  that  to  cast  an 
chor  in  the  quiet  haven  of  home,  seems  as  inviting 
as  the  rest  of  heaven»_  Oh,  my  Father,  grant  me  the 
realization  of  these  dreams,  that  bring  delicious  tears 
to  my  eyes,  and  a  new  sense  of  life  to  my  heart ! 

I  shall  be  with  you,  dear  mother,  shortly  after  this 
reaches  you ;  till  then,  adieu !  EMILY." 

Resigning  the  post  she  had  so  long  filled 


36  THE    LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE. 

with  honor  and  satisfaction,  Enaily  Holden 
now  turned  her  face  homewards. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  an  afternoon  in 
the  early  fall,  when  the  stage  left  her  at  the 
village  inn,  more  than  a  mile  from  her  moth 
er's  residence,  which  was  in  a  retired  part 
of  the  town.  Declining  the  proffer  of  a  car 
riage,  and  ordering  her  baggage  sent  after 
her,  she  started  on  foot  towards  home,  an 
ticipating,  with  trembling  eagerness,  the  joy 
ful  surprise  of  her  mother,  on  seeing  her 
enter  the  cottage,  unannounced  by  the  rum 
bling  of  wheels.  The  road  was  one  which 
she  had  often  traveled  in  her  girlhood,  and 
she  interested  herself  in  noting  the  changes 
that  had  occurred  during  her  absence.  Sud 
denly  she  was  aroused  from  her  pleasing 
state  of  mind,  by  the  heavy  undulation  of 
the  church  bell,  that  struck  a  knell  for  a 
funeral,  or  recent  dea.th. 

As  she  reached  the  church,  the  tolling 
ceased,  and,  according  to  the  custom  of 
many  of  the  remote  and  primitive  villages  of 
New  England,  the  bell  commenced  "  striking 
the  age"  of  the  deceased.  Emily  paused  to 
count  the  strokes.  The  last  stroke  of  the 
bell,  at  last,  vibrated  on  the  air  —  the  age 
denoted  was  sixty  years.  Emily  remember- 


THE   LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE.  37 

ed  that  it  was  also  her  mother's  age.  She 
stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  ground,  waiting  for 
the  bell  to  strike  once  more;  —  one  stroke 
would  signify  that  the  deceased  was  a  man, 
two  that  it  was  a  woman."  Solemnly,  slowly, 
heavily,  the  strokes  came  —  two  of  them. 
The  blood  receded  from  Emily's  cheek,  and 
went  rushing  back  to  her  heart;  but  seeing 
the  old  sexton  issue  from  the  church  door, 
which  he  locked  behind  him,  and  descend 
the  steps,  she  summoned  all  her  powers,  and 
advanced  towards  him. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,  sir,  who  is  dead  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  Why,  yes  ma'am,"  replied  the  old  man ; 
"  It 's  the  widder  Holden,  that  lives  down 
there  in  the  little  white  house  yunder.  She's 
been  mighty  poorly  this  long  time ;  but  we 
all  hoped  she  would  hold  out  till  4ier  darter 
got  home  from  the  Suth'ard,  that  she  's  been 
expectin'  this  great  while  —  but  the  old  lady 
died  this  mornin'." 

Emily  fell  heavily  to  the  ground.  Aston 
ished  at  the  effect  produced  by  his  words, 
the  old  man  took  her  in  his  arms  to  a  neigh 
boring  house,  where,  after  long  efforts,  she 
was  restored  to  consciousness.  "  Carry  me 
to  my  mother !  Carry  me  to  my  mother !" 


38  THE    LIFE-LONG    SACRIFICE. 

she  said,  like  a  sick  child ;  and  they  took  her 
to  the  cottage,  where  lay  the  sheeted  form 
of  her  deceased  parent.  In  tearless  agony 
Emily  kissed  the  eyes,  sealed  in  the  sleep 
that  knows  no  waking  and  felt  that  the  last 
hold  of  her  affections  was  torn  away !  Uni 
versal  sympathy  was  felt  for  her,  throughout 
the  town ;  but  while  others  wept  freely  for 
her,  her  eyes  were  glazed  and  dry;  and 
though  all  hearts  and  homes  were  opened  to 
her,  she  was  firm  in  her  determination  to  re 
main  at  the  cottage.  "  I  shall  have  another 
home,  shortly,"  she  said,  as  if  speaking  pro 
phetically  ;  "  let  me  remain  here,  for  the  pres 
ent." 

As  soon  as  the  news  of  his  mother's  death, 
and  his  sister's  return,  reached  him,  Henry 
made  preparations  for  the  future  residence 
of  the  latter  with  himself.  He  was  on  the 
eve  of  marriage  with  a  fair  girl,  the  counter 
part  of  the  sister  to  whom  he  owed  so  much ; 
and  he  was  resolved  that  the  home  of  Emily 
should  henceforth  be  with  them,  and  that  she 
should  abandon  the  arduous  profession  at 
which  she  had  so  faithfully  labored. 

He  came  immediately  for  her ;  but  the  lit 
tle  cottage  was  empty.  Emily  was  not  there ; 
she  had  rejoined  the  mother,  whose  declining 


THE    LIFE-LONG    SACRIFICE.  39 

days  she  hoped  to  beautify,  in  that  better 
world,  where  there  is  no  sorrow.  He  was 
shown  to  her  low  grave  in  the  churchyard, 
and  the  following  note  —  her  dying  words  to 
him — was  placed  in  his  hands: 

"  MY  DEAR  BROTHER  : 

Standing  just  on  the  verge  of  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  I  pause,  for  a  moment,  to  bid  you 
farewell.  The  world  is  now  behind  me,  the  grave 
at  my  feet,  and  heaven  —  HEAVEN  —  is  full  in  view  ! 
Henry,  I  am  dying!  I  shall  never  again  see  you 
with  mortal  vision ;  my  summons  hence  has  reached 
me,  and  I  may  not  tarry  till  your  arrival.  Yet  I  am 
reconciled  to  the  termination  of  my  life,  for  I  have 
accomplished  all  that  was  given  me  to  do;  I  have 
fulfilled  my  mission ;  I  am  ready  to  go.  I  now  seem 
to  have  no  object  in  life.  You  do  not  need  my  fur 
ther  aid ;  our  dear  mother  is  translated  to  her  rest  — 
and  worn,  wearied,  depressed,  I  accept  with  thank 
fulness  the  repose  of  the  grave. 

Do  not  mourn  my  departure  —  be  not  pained  that 
you  find  me  gone.  Though  invisible  to  you,  I  shall 
not  be  separated  from  you — not  removed.  You  have 
been  inexpressibly  dear  to  me  in  life  —  you  are  in 
death  —  you  will  be  in  eternity.  I  shall  be  with  you 
always,  and  with  her  whom  you  have  taken  to  your 
heart ;  and  you  will  both  perceive  my  spiritual  pres 
ence,  though  in  bodily  form  you  will  see  me  no  more. 

And  now,  brother,  friend  of  my  soul,  farewell! 
Remember  the  struggles  of  our  early  youth  for  eman 
cipation  of  soul,  and  deal  kindly  with  all  similarly 
situated.  God  has  lifted  you  up,  by  your  great  tal 
ents,  above  the  mass  of  mankind ;  —  consecrate  them 
to  his  service. 

Farewell !  I  am  weary,  and  the  rest  of  the  church 
yard,  whose  white  stones  I  see  gleaming  in  the  dis 
tance,  seems  inviting  and  sweet.  Farewell,  dear, 
dear  brother  —  farewell !  EMILY." 


40  THE    LIFE-LONG   SACRIFICE. 

With  a  bursting  heart,  Henry  went  out  to 
the  grave  of  her  to  whom  he  owed  all  that 
he  was ;  and  there,  where  only  God  beheld 
him,  he  consecrated  himself  anew  to  good 
ness  and  truth.  Kneeling  on  the  grassy  turf, 
beneath  which  slumbered  his  mother  and 
sister,  he  called  on  her  who  had  given  him 
birth,  and  on  her  whose  heart  and  life  had 
been  stepping-stones  to  his  present  exalta 
tion,  to  witness  the  vow  that  he  made  to  be 
the  champion  of  right  and  virtue  —  a  vow 
which  his  after  life  fulfilled  —  a  vow  that  nev 
er  was  broken. 


THE  SALE  OF  THE  HOMESTEAD. 


Six  years  had  passed  away  since  the  sleep 
of  death  had  weighed  down  the  eyelids  of 
Mr.  Howard,  and  his  last  resting-place  had 
been  hollowed  beneath  the  cypress  and  the 
willow.  Many  and  various  changes  had 
occurred  during  that  time,  and  the  great  sor 
row  that  had  been  sent  into  his  family  by 
his  death,  had  been  deepened  and  darkened 
by  other  succeeding  reverses  and  disasters. 
The  large  and  valuable  estate,  which  at  his 
decease,  was  not  wholly  unencumbered,  had 
become  more  heavily  embarrassed  through 
bad  management,  until  heavy  mortgages 
nearly  covered  its  whole  value.  Amiable, 
confiding  and  credulous,  reared  in  affluence, 
destitute  of  any  financiering  ability,  without 
practical  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  devoid 
of  the  energy  most  needful  to  her  in  her 
circumstances,  Mrs.  Howard  trusted  to  dis 
honest  agents,  and  rapacious  money-seekers, 
who  hesitated  not  to  defraud  her  of  the  por- 


42  THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAD. 

tion  left  to  her  and  her  fatherless  children, 
and  who,  in  the  short  space  of  half  a  dozen 
years,  reduced  her  thousands  to  a  mere  pit 
tance. 

Then,  too,  sickness  had  been  busy  in  the 
household,  and  death  had  claimed  two  of  the 
fairest  and  most  precious  blossoms  of  the 
family  tree — the  eldest  two  of  the  family, 
both  sons,  the  mother's  pride  and  depend 
ence,  who,  with  tears  and  heart-breaking  sor 
row  were  laid  to  rest,  in  the  private  burial 
ground  on  the  estate,  beside  their  lamented 
father.  The  anger  of  Mrs.  Howard's  family, 
which  had  been  excited  by  her  husband 
shortly  after  their  marriage,  by  some  busi 
ness  transaction  which  clashed  with  the 
interests  of  his  wealthy  and  somewhat  tyran 
nous  father-in-law,  burned  as  fiercely  as  ever 
against  her,  during  her  sad  and  troubled 
widowhood,  when  more  than  ever  she  prayed 
that  it  might  be  averted. 

But  sadder  than  all  other  changes  was 
that  observed  in  their  mother,  by  the  dutiful 
and  loving  children,  who  clung  to  the  timid, 
shrinking  widow  with  more  than  idolatrous 
affection.  Each  succeeding  year  she  had 
drooped  under  the  pressure  of  care,  trouble 
and  sorrow,  that  laid  their  heavy  burdens 


THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD.  43 

upon  her,  becoming  paler,  thinner,  and  sad 
der,  until  it  seemed  as  if  even  the  transform 
ing  process  of  death  could  not  farther  ethe- 
realize  her.  Physical  debility  at  first  only 
confined  her  to  her  room,  which  the  watchful 
love  of  her  children  gendered  a  most  pleasant 
retreat ;  but  soon  she  was  compelled  to  keep 
her  bed  most  of  each  day,  and  then  imper 
ceptibly  such  weakness  stole  over  her,  that 
it  became  necessary  to  lift  her  from  her  bed 
to  her  arm-chair,  and  back  from  the  arm 
chair  to  the  bed,  like  a  mere  babe.  Still  all 
the  while  she  cherished  delusive  hopes  of 
recovery,  and  even  when  the  thought  of 
death  stole  pleasantly  over  her,  as  the 
thought  of  night  comes  to  the  worn  and 
weary  laborer,  for  her  children's  sake  she 
put  away  the  vision,  and  predicted  that  "  she 
should  be  better  by  and  by."  Now  she  was 
sure  that  the  breath  of  spring  would  revive 
her,  and  then  that  the  bracing  air  of  winter 
would  recuperate  her  wasting  energies ;  but 
all  the  while  she  failed,  and  faded,  and  sunk 
into  the  grave,  till  all  but  those  who  loved 
her  most,  and  prayed  most  earnestly  for  her 
life,  saw  that  there  was  but  a  step  between 
her  and  death. 

The  last  earthly  spring   had   budded   for 
tfa 


44  THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAD. 

her,  and  there  was  no  longer  room  for  hope. 
The  spiritual  vision  of  the  wasting  invalid 
became  enlarged,  and  she  saw  earth  receding 
from  her  view,  and  heaven  opening  to  her; 
while  the  stricken  children,  who  would  fain 
have  accompanied  their  beloved  mother 
through  the  dark  valley,  saw  that  she  was 
passing  from  their  embrace.  It  was. not  pos 
sible  for  either  party  to  deceive  itself  longer 
— Mrs.  Howard  was  dying.  She  summoned 
her  children  to  her  bedside,  a  sorrowing, 
helpless  group,  the  eldest  just  emerging  from 
childhood,  the  youngest,  a  child  of  seven  sum 
mers.  All  her  anxieties  for  them  were  at  an 
end;  she  had  done  with  the  world  and  its 
cares;  and  though  she  could  not  see  the 
way,  she  was  sure  the  All-wise  Father  would 
provide  for  them  and  have  them  in  his  keep 
ing.  She  enjoined  on  them  another  appeal 
to  their  wealthy,  but  relentless  grand-parent, 
adjured  them  to  hold  fast  their  integrity,  and 
then,  with  words  of  benediction  on  her  dying 
lips,  with  love  beaming  from  her  dim  eyes, 
and  hope  shining  like  a  halo  from  her  pale 
brow,  she  bade  them  "  good-by,"  and  taking 
the  hand  of  the  Savior,  walked  firmly  and 
fearlessly  through  the  dark  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death.  And  now  was  the  world 


THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD.  45 

dark  indeed  to  the  orphaned  brothers  and 
sisters ;  the  love  which  had  lighted  their  way 
had  gone  out  in  death,  and  timid,  wretched 
and  alone,  they  clung  to  one  another  in  sor 
rowing  helplessness.  The  waters  of  afflic 
tion  which  before  had  only  dashed  around 
their  feet,  had  now  swelled  breast  high,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  they  would  be  borne  to  de 
spair  by  them  :  it  was  impossible  for  them  to 
be  comforted. 

But  despite  all  grief  and  sorrow,  the  tide 
of  business  and  worldly  affairs  rolls  on  as 
ever,  and  the  routine  of  every-day  life  is  but 
slightly  disturbed.  The  funeral  rites  were 
scarcely  over,  and  Mrs.  Howard  laid  at  rest 
beside  her  husband  and  children,  before 
Ellen,  the  eldest  of  the  family,  not  yet  sev 
enteen,  found  forced  upon  her  the  necessity 
of  planning  and  thinking  for  the  dreary 
future  before  her.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
She  knew  not,  and  in  her  ignorance  consult 
ed  the  kind-hearted  and  sympathizing  people 
who  came  to  offer  their  condolence  to  the 
afflicted  household.  Every  variety  of  advice 
and  counsel  was  given  her,  and  Ellen  found 
herself  bewildered,  rather  than  aided.  But 
the  opinion  which  obtained  most  widely 
among  her  advisers  was,  that  the  estate  had 


46  THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD. 

better  be  sold,  and  also  all  the  personal  prop 
erty  not  necessary  to  them,  and  the  debts  of 
the  family  liquidated,  when  it  was  hoped  a 
sum  would  be  left  sufficient  to  maintain  them 
until  means  for  their  farther  support  could  be 
devised.  It  was  said  that  Ellen  could  sup 
port  herself  by  teaching;  Fanny,  the  next 
eldest,  who  displayed  remarkable  taste,  might 
be  apprenticed  to  a  milliner;  Henry  and 
Granville  should  both  be  bound  to  some 
artisan,  till  they  had  acquired  a  trade ;  while 
very  many  in  town  were  willing  to  take 
Susie  and  Clara,  the  youngest,  and  the  pet 
lambs  of  the  household,  and  adopting  them 
into  their  families,  rear  them  as  their  own 
children. 

But  from  all  this  Ellen  shrank  with  terri 
ble  reluctance.  What!  sell  the  dear  home 
stead,  where  her  brothers  and  sisters,  with 
herself,  had  first  seen  the  light  of  day,  where 
their  infancy  and  childhood  had  been  passed, 
where  lay  her  parents  and  four  of  their  chil 
dren  !  Should  she  sell  the  graves  of  these 
dear  ones,  their  last  resting-place !  No, 
never  !  never  !  She  would  never  consent  to 
it :  they  would  practice  the  most  rigid  econ 
omy,  they  would  endure  privations  and  the 
most  pinching  poverty,  they  would  labor  like 


THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD.  47 

Helots,  but  sell  the  homestead  they  could 
not,  must  not,  would  not. 

Nor  did  the  other  advice  find  more  favor 
with  her.  What  would  their  mother  say  to 
see  her  darling  children  scattered  hither  and 
thither,  some  drudging  at  trades,  when  they 
should  be  conning  lessons,  and  others  forced 
to  be  kitchen  menials,  ere  they  were  out  of 
their  babyhood  ?  No,  she  could  not  consent 
to  this ;  she  was  the  eldest,  and  appointed 
by  nature  and  Providence  to  be  the  guardi 
ans  of  the  orphaned  children,  and  how  could 
she  expect  the  blessing  of  her  sainted  par 
ents  would  rest  upon  her,  if  she  permitted 
such  cruel  dismemberment  of  the  family! 
And  poor  Ellen  was  as  much  at  a  loss  as 
ever  to  know  what  to  do.  All  felt  for  her, 
but  none  were  able  to  give  her  better  advice 
than  that  which  she  had  refused  to  follow  ; 
and  though  friends  still  clustered  around  her, 
friends  in  outward  seeming,  if  not  in  reality, 
who  were  continually  proifering  their  vary 
ing  advice,  she  lingered  and  hesitated,  and 
inefficient,  as  her  mother  had  been  before 
her,  did  nothing. 

But  the  necessity  from  which  she  shrank, 
was  at  last  forced  upon  her ;  and  her  irreso 
lution  was  changed  by  compulsion  into  spas- 


48  THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAD. 

raodic  action.     The  legal  adviser,  who  had 
transacted  business  for  her  mother,  waited 
upon  her,  while  she  was  in  this  undecided 
state,  and  informed  her  that  two  or  three  of 
the  heaviest  mortgages  had  been  foreclosed 
by  those  who  held  them,  and  as  it  was  now 
too  late  to  redeem  them,  and  she  had  not  the 
means,  it   would    be   necessary   to   sell   the 
estate.     This  intelligence  came  like  a  thun 
der-bolt  upon    poor   Ellen.     She   knew   too 
little   of  business   matters   to    anticipate   or 
expect  the  occurrence  of  which  he  informed 
her ;  and  it  came,  therefore,  with  overpower 
ing  force  upon  her.     There  was  now  no  way 
but  to    let   matters   take   their   own  course. 
With  the  loss  of  the  estate  they  would  lose 
their  home:    they  had  no  relatives  in  that 
section  of  the  country;  of  their  father's  kin 
dred  they  knew  nothing,  and  their  maternal 
relatives  they  had  reason  to  believo  would 
be  hostile  to  them,  so  that  they  would  be 
forced  to  dispose  of  all  the  personal  prop 
erty,  with   the   exception  of  some  valuable 
and  portable  articles,  which  it  was  deemed 
advisable  they  should  retain.     The  heart  of 
Ellen    died   within   her.      This   seemed   the 
crowning  calamity  of  her  life,  and  the  future 
was   now   invested    with    additional    terror. 


THE    SALE    OP    THE    HOMESTEAD.  49 

Dispersion,  degradation,  and  little  less  than 
beggary  seemed  before  her.  With  a  heart 
like  lead  in  her  bosom,  she  gathered  her 
brothers  and  sisters  around  her,  and  impart 
ed  to  them  the  knowledge  of  this  fresh  afflic 
tion,  and  while  she  intended  to  give  them  an 
example  of  fortitude  and  self-reliance,  in  her 
own  demeanor,  she  only  abandoned  herself 
to  the  most  overwhelming  grief.  It  was  sad 
tidings  for  them  all ;  and  as  they  realized 
that  the  hour  was  approaching,  which  would 
deprive  them  of  their  home,  and  would  rend 
them  from  each  other,  they  clung  to  one 
another  more  fondly,  and  wept  more  incon- 
solably. 

But  in  the  depth  of  this  utter  darkness, 
Ellen,  feeble,  ignorant,  shrinking  and  ineffi 
cient,  yet  saw  light.  Earth  seemed  pitiless 
to  them;  fortune  had  frowned  upon  theni4 
but  God  was  yet  left  them,  their  mother's 
God,  before  whom  they  had  bowed  with  her 
each  night  and  morning ;  and  to  Him  they 
now  appealed  in  their  hour  of  extremity. 
Kneeling  together  in  the  sanctuary  of  that 
consecrated  room  where  their  mother  had 
died,  the  desolate  children  joined  in  the 
broken,  but  earnest  prayer  that  came  from 
Ellen's  lips  and  full  heart,  and  when  they 


50  THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAI*. 

rose  from  their  supplication,  if  they  saw  their 
way  no  clearer,  their  hearts  were  yet  calmer, 
their  spirits  lighter.  And  now  Ellen  be 
thought  her  of  her  mother's  dying  injunc 
tion,  and  dismissing  the  younger  children  to 
their  slumbers,  and  asking  the  aid  of  the 
elder  ones,  she  sat  down  and  wrote  her 
--^grandfather  the  following  simple  epistle : 

"MR.  THOS.  BABTON: 

"Dear  Sir, — In  obedience  to  the  dying  injunction 
of  my  departed  mother,  I  take  the  liberty  of  address 
ing  you,  her  father,  whom  I  have  never  known  but 
through  her  conversation.  Three  months  ago,  she 
left  earth  for  a  happier  home,  and  by  her  death  six 
of  us  are  rendered  desolate  and  destitute  orphans. 
Ignorant  of  the  world,  friendless,  disconsolate  and  in 
poverty,  we  know  not  what  to  do.  Our  father's 
large  estate  is  advertised  to  be  sold  at  auction,  to 
pay  off  the  heavy  mortgage  upon  it,  and  what  little 
personal  property  we  possess  must  be  sacrificed  to 
liquidate  other  debts.  We  slia^  tlien  he  afloat  upon 
the  world,  utterly  penniless.  .  The  eldest  of  us  is 
nearly  seventeen,  the  youngest  nearly  eight  years 
old.  We  are  all  willing  to  work  and  aid  ourselves, 
but  we  need  direction  and  advice.  We  desire  above 
all  things  not  to  be  far  separated  from  each  other,  as 
when  we  have  lost  our  home,  the  dear  homestead 
where  we  were  born,  where  sleep  our  parents,  and 
four  of  our  brothers  and  sisters,  the  society  of  each 
other  will  be  the  only  happiness  we  shall  know. 

"  In  this  sad  state  of  things,  to  whom  is  it  more 
natural  for  us  to  apply  than  to  the  father  of  our 
sainted  mother — that  father  on  whose  head  she  sup 
plicated  blessings  even  with  her  latest  breath  —  that 
father  whom  she  ever  loved,  and  taught  her  children 
to  revere  and  to  pray  for  ?  I  am  aware,  dear  Sir,  of 
the  unhappy  state  of  feeling  that  has  existed  between 


THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD.  51 

the  two  families  —  but  oh,  forgive  the  offence  of  our 
father  against  you  !  He  has  long  slept  beneath  the 
clods  of  the  valley,  and  now  our  dear,  dear  mother 
has  joined  him!  Can  you  not  then  forgive  them, 
and  look  compassionately  on  their  children,  who 
have  never  injured  you,  no,  not  in  thought?  We 
beseech  you,  by  the  memory  of  that  glorified  spirit, 
whose  ascension  to  heaven  we  so  deeply  deplore,  by 
the  memory  of  the  dear  Redeemer,  who  forgave  his 
deadliest  enemies  even  on  the  cross,  by  the  love  of 
that  God  in  whom  wre  still  trust  in  all  our  darkness, 
forgive  our  parents,  extend  to  us  reconciliation  and 
pardon,  and  bestow  on  us  your  aifection,  your  sym 
pathy,  your  counsel  and  aid.  God  will  reward  you 
for  it,  and  my  mother  in  her  glorious  home  above 
will  shower  upon  you  silent,  but  not  unperceived 
blessings  for  it. 

"  With  respect  and  affection, 

"  ELLEN  HOWAED." 

"There,"  said  Ellen,  folding  the  sheet,  "I 
have  done  as  mother  commanded ;  but  I  am 
sure  my  letter  will  go  on  a  bootless  errand. 
We  shall  never  hear  from  it,  I  fear." 

"No,"  sighed  Fanny  disconsolately,  lean 
ing  her  head  on  her  hand  with  an  air  of 
dejection,  "if  it  were  not  that  mother  re 
quested  it,  I  should  laugh,  wretched  as  we 
are,  at  the  idea  of  applying  to  grandfather. 
If  he  would  not  reply  to  her  letters,  written 
after  father's  death,  he  will  not  to  ours" 

"  Well,  now,  I  have  more  faith  than  either 
of  you,"  said  Henry,  a  remarkably  serene, 
spiritual  and  intellectual  lad ;  "  it  seems  to 


52  THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAD. 

me  that  letter  will  be  answered,  sister  Ellen, 
and  favorably  too." 

"  Heaven  grant  you  may  be  a  true  proph 
et  !"  and  Ellen  kissed  his  calm,  white  brow ; 
"but  it  is  so  many  years  since  grandfather 
began  to  cherish  anger  against  our  parents, 
that  I  have  little  hope  from  that  quarter,  I 
confess." 

The  next  morning,  with  a  trembling  but 
hopeful  heart,  Henry  committed  the  letter  to 
the  post-office,  and  then,  patiently  as  they 
could,  they  awaited  the  result  of  its  mission. 
Weeks  wore  away ;  everywhere  notices  of 
the  approaching  sale  of  their  home  met  their 
eyes,  the  house  and  grounds  were  ransacked 
by  intended  purchasers,  questions  which  they 
deemed  impertinent,  and  shrank  from  an 
swering,  were  continually  asked  them,  and 
as  continually  were  they  urged  to  make  some 
arrangements  about  the  future  ;  but  they 
hoped,  vaguely  and  faintly  to  be  sure,  that 
their  grandfather,  or  some  one  of  their  rela 
tives  might  yet  appear  for  their  relief.  But 
though  Henry  made  his  appearance  at  the 
office  on  each  arrival  of  the  mail,  no  letter 
came  in  reply  to  the  one  Ellen  had  des 
patched.  The  faint  hope  which  had  lighted 
the  heart  of  the  Howards  died  completely 


THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAD.  53 

away,  and  when  on  the  day  before  the  auc 
tion,  Henry  returned  from  the  office  empty- 
handed  as  ever,  they  said  to  one  another  in 
bitter  despondence,  "We  must  now  make  up 
our  minds  to  see  our  dear  home  pass  into 
the  hands  of  strangers ;  there  is  no  other 
alternative." 

When  the  sun  went  down  that  evening, 
hand  in  hand  they  took  their  last  walk 
around  the  dear  premises,  and  now  mutely, 
and  now  with  broken  words  and  flowing 
tears,  bid  the  scenes  and  haunts  of  their 
childhood  farewell.  They  walked  through 
the  green  meadow,  in  whose  meandering 
stream  they  had  bathed  their  weary  feet  in 
the  busy  and  happy  season  of  haymaking; 
they  passed  through  the  orchard,  where 
showers  of  fragrant  blossoms  had  rained  on 
them  in  the  spring,  and  where,  with  shout 
and  glee,  their  tiny  hands  had  helped  to  har 
vest  the  rosy  and  golden  stores  of  autumn. 
Then  they  stopped  to  look  their  last  on  the 
grape-vine  bowers,  to  rest  for  a  few  moments 
on  the  circular  seat  with  which  their  father 
had  girdled  the  graceful  old  elm,  to  peep 
into  the  stables,  carriage-house,  dove-cotes, 
and  the  Gothic  dwelling  of  Lion,  the  house 
dog,  who  accompanied  them  in  this  last  ram- 


54  THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD. 

ble  about  their  old  homestead,  and  then  they 
turned  into  the  garden.  But  here  the  smoth 
ered  grief  of  their  hearts  burst  forth  irre- 
pressibly.  Here  were  the  honey-suckles 
their  mother  had  trained,  the  rose-bushes 
she  had  planted,  the  jessamine  she  had  trel- 
lisecl,  the  flowef-beds  she  had  laid  out,  the 
walks  she  had  designed,  the  shrubs  she  had 
nurtured  —  nowhere  could  they  turn  their 
eyes,  but  they  were  reminded  of  her  who 
was  all  to  them,  of  her  whose  loss  to  them 
was  irreparable.  The  sense  of  their  bereave 
ment,  that  time  had  somewhat  deadened, 
became  fresh  as  if  it  had  occurred  yesterday, 
and  they  wept  in  one  another's  embrace,  like 
orphaned  children  indeed. 

Long  they  lingered  in  the  tasteful  enclo 
sure,  and  not  till  the  purple  twilight  had 
deepened  into  evening,  did  they  pass  to  the 
most  sacred  and  touching  spot  of  all — the 
family  burial-ground.  Awed  and  saddened, 
they  passed  under  the  black  shade  of  the 
cypress  an.d  willow,  that  sighed  mournfully 
in  the  evening  air,  and  sat  down  beside  the 
little  mounds,  whose  marble  slabs,  gleaming 
in  the  dim  light,  bore  the  names  of  the  calm 
sleepers  beneath.  Here  bloomed  roses  and 
pansies,  the  amaranth  and  heliotrope,  planted 


THE    SALE    OP    THE    HOMESTEAD.  55 

by  the  surviving  children,  who  sought  to 
beautify  the  place,  and  to  express  by  flowery 
emblems  the  love  and  hope  of  their  hearts* 
for  the  departed.  Tearfully  they  sought  to 
comfort  one  another,  expressing  hopes  they 
did  not  cherish,  and  expectations  which  had 
no  place  in  their  hearts,  and  not  until  the 
dampness  of  the  dews  warned  them  of  their 
protracted  stay,  did  they  seek  the  house,  to 
await  with  heavy  hearts  the  advent  of  the 
next  terrible  day — the  day  of  the  dreaded 
auction. 

Among  the  many  individuals  who  had  vis 
ited  the  house  and  grounds  of  the  Howards 
since  it  had  been  advertised  for  sale,  was 
one  person  towards  whom  the  orphans  felt 
a  strong  repugnance.  The  object  of  their 
dislike  was  tall  and  gaunt,  with  a  shrewd 
and  sinister  cast  of  face,  obstinate,  reserved, 
and  prying,  who  succeeded  in  getting  at  the 
intentions  and  purposes  of  others  marvelous- 
ly,  while  he  would  have  puzzled  the  most 
skilful  inquisitor  with  his  vague  and  ambigu 
ous  replies.  With  an  insolent  and  independ 
ent  air,  he  stalked  through  the  various  apart 
ments  of  the  mansion,  giving  utterance  to 
remarks  that  indicated  great  lack  of  refine 
ment,  and  catechising  the  children  concern- 


56  THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD. 

ing  their  prospects  and  the  causes  of  their 
embarrassment,  until  their  gentle  spirits 
rebelled,  and  they  gave  their  rude  visitor  to 
understand  that  they  deemed  his  queries 
insolent.  To  increase  still  more  the  abhor 
rence  of  the  young  Howards,  he  brushed 
Tabby,  the  tortoise-shell  kitten  from  his 
knee,  upon  which  she  had  purringly  jumped, 
as  if  the  petted  favorite  had  been  a  venom 
ous  reptile ;  Lion,  their  tawny  playfellow, 
received  a  kick  from  him,  as  he  lay.  sunning 
himself  in  the  door-way,  which  roused  the 
animal  into  an  attitude  of  defence  and  indig 
nation,  that  startled  the  impassive  and  stolid 
Mr.  Jenkins.  As  he  perambulated  the  gar 
den,  his  large  and  heavy  feet,  instead  of 
keeping  within  the  limits  of  the  graveled 
walks,  trod  here  upon  the  box  borders,  and 
there  into  the  very  heart  of  a  flower-bed  ; 
now  he  plucked  the  crowning  blossoms  of  a 
rare  exotic,  and  then,  in  gathering  a  flower, 
drew  the  whole  plant  from  the  earth ;  while 
to  complete  the  list  of  his  offences,  he  pulled 
Henry  slyly  by  the  ear,  as  if  he  were  a  mere 
roguish  boy,  instead  of  a  dignified  youth, 
chucked  Clara  and  Susie  under  the  chin,  as 
they  were  packing  their  baby-houses,  and 
asked  Ellen  when  she  thought  of  moving, 


THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD.  57 

and  where.  As  he  completed  his  survey  of 
the  premises,  and  announced  his  intention  to 
purchase  the  estate,  a  simultaneous  outcry 
burst  from  the  younger  children,  who  ex 
pressed  the  hope  that  he  might  not  be  suc 
cessful  in  his  plans,  —  a  wish  that  he  heard 
with  a  sardonic  countenance,  when  he  turned 
and  left  them  to  themselves. 

The  day  of  the  sale  dawned,  bright,  fair, 
and  balmy,  although  the  children  had  fer 
vently  hoped  it  might  prove  stormy  and 
blustering.  At  an  early  hour,  crowds  of 
people  thronged  to  the  Howard  estate,  many 
desiring  to  effect  some  purchase,  many  as 
idle  lookers-on,  and  some  few  to  comfort  and 
sustain  the  homeless  and  penniless  orphans 
in  their  trial.  Earliest  and  most  prominent 
among  the  multitude,  appeared  the  obnox 
ious  Mr.  Jenkins,  who,  with  the  familiarity 
of  an  old  acquaintance,  accosted  the  dis 
tressed  family,  passing  the  usual  compli 
ments  of  the  day,  and  congratulating  them 
on  the  favorable  prospect  there  appeared  for 
an  advantageous  sale. 

The  personal  property  was  first  disposed 
of;  and  to  the  infinite  annoyance  of  the 
young  Howards,  and  the  utter  astonishment 
of  the  gazer s-on,  every  thing  valuable,  every 

5 


58  THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD. 

thing  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  them 
to  replace,  every  thing  they  hoped  would  be 
purchased  by  their  neighbors  and  townspeo 
ple,  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  detested 
Jenkins.  The  beautiful  and  costly  furniture' 
of  the  parlors,  rare  pictures  and  all — Mr. 
Howard's  library,  his  cabinet  of  curiosities, 
his  busts,  philosophical  apparatus,  and  even 
his  gold  watch — the  coach,  carriage-horses, 
and  Henry's  black  pony — in  short,  every 
thing  they  had  hoped  to  see  pass  into  other 
hands,  was  coolly  bidden  off  by  him,  who 
ran  up  the  prices  of  articles  against  his  com 
petitors,  as  if  the  gold  of  California  were  at 
his  command. 

At  last,  the  auctioneer  announced  the  sale 
of  the  estate.  At  this  notice,  the  excited 
multitude  gathered  around  him,  few  of  whom 
cared  to  bid  on  so  heavy  property.  There 
was  one  individual,  however,  anxious  to  se 
cure  it — an  old  resident  of  the  town,  wealthy, 
popular,  and  friendly  to  the  family  whose 
fallen  fortunes  had  caused  the  auction.  It 
was  also  known  that  Jenkins  was  desirous  to 
buy  the  estate,  though  few  present  doubted  not 
but  he  would  be  overbidden  by  his  wealthy 
rival.  There  were  forty  acres  in  the  whole 
property,  and  it  was  to  be  sold  undivided. 


THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAD.  59 

The  auction  commenced.  The  first  bid 
was  made  by  Mr.  Wilson,  the  townsman  of 
the  Howards,  who  offered  fifty  dollars  per 
acre  for  the  entire  lands.  This  was  prompt 
ly  responded  to  by  Jenkins,  who  advanced 
ten  dollars  on  the  bid  of  his  rival,  and  a 
brisk  competition  ensued  between  them,  un 
til  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars  had 
been  offered  by  Jenkins.  The  scene  now 
became  a  most  exciting  one.  The  dense 
crowd  had  pressed  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
auctioneer's  stand,  until  the  two  rivals  were 
closely  hemmed  in  by  a  compact  wall  of  hu 
man  beings,  few  of  whom  did  not  desire  that 
Jenkins  might  be  defeated  in  his  plans  of 
buying.  Mr.  Wilson  was  highly  excited. 
His  face  was  pale,  his  eyes  flashing  with  a 
lightning  glance,  his  lips  parted,  while  his 
movements  betokened  great  nervous  agita 
tion.  On  the  other  hand,  Jenkins  was  im- 
pertubably  calm  and  collected.  With  his 
hat  partly  slouched  over  his  eyes,  with  an 
impassive  and  sardonic  face,  he  was  whit 
tling  away  as  coolly  as  though  he  felt  no 
interest  whatever  in  the  proceedings  about 
him. 

"  One  hundred  fifty  dollars  !"  bid  Wilson, 
while  the  crowd  around  gasped  for  breath. 

5E 


60  THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAD. 

"  One  hundred  fifty  dollars  is  offered  for 
the  estate!"  shouted  the  auctioneer;  "one 
hundred  fifty  dollars  !  who  bids  more  ?  going 
at  one  hundred  fifty — going" — 

"  One  hundred  fifty-five !"  drawled  Jen 
kins,  without  raising  his  eyes,  or  ceasing  to 
whittle. 

"  One  hundred  fifty-five  dollars  per  acre  is 
offered !  the  land  worth  every  cent  of  it ! 
Am  I  offered  more?  One  hundred  fifty-five : 
one  hundred  fifty-five!  going — who  bids — 
going"—- 

"  One  hundred  sixty !"  shrieked  Wilson, 
in  a  tone  of  exasperation,  casting  dagger-like 
glances  at  his  nonchalant  competitor. 

"  One  hundred  sixty  is  offered !  who  bids 
higher  than  one  hundred  and  sixty  ?  Who 
bids  ?  who  bids  ?  going  at  one  hundred  and 
sixty — going"  — 

"  One  hundred  sixty-five !"  offered  Jenkins, 
with  the  utmost  sangfroid. 

"  The  bid  is  raised  to  one  hundred  sixty- 
five  dollars  !  does  any  one  offer  more  ?  going 
atone  hundred  sixty-five  dollars,  going" — 

"  One  hundred  seventy !"  bid  Wilson,  while 
large  beads  of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead, 
and  his  face  became  deathly  pale ;  at  the 
same  time  dropping  his  head,  and  retreating 


THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD.  61 

back  a  step  or  two  into  the  crowd,  with  a 
manner  that  said,  "  I  shall  go  no  higher  I" 

"  I  am  offered  one  hundred  seventy  dollars 
for  this  estate!"  continued  the  auctioneer; 
"who  bids  more — who  bids?  who  bids? 
going— going"  — 

"  One  hundred  and  seventy-five !"  contin 
ued  Jenkins,  as  quite  and  cool  as  heretofore. 

"  One  hundred  seventy-five  dollars  ?  does 
any  one  bid  more?  One  hundred  seventy- 
five —  one  hundred  seventy-five  —  going — 
going — GONE  !"  —  and  the  fall  of  his  hammer 
closed  the  contest.  A  murmur  of  disappoint 
ment  ran  through  the  crowd,  when  Jenkins 
was  announced  as  the  purchaser,  while  all 
now  gathered  round  him,  to  ascertain  his 
intentions  relative  to  the  property.  But  he 
was  impenetrable ;  and  though  their  queries 
were  most  perseveringly  pushed,  they  were 
so  cunningly  evaded,  or  ambiguously  answer 
ed,  that  with  a  muttered  curse  on  the  singu 
lar  being,  he  was  soon  left  to  himself. 

As  for  the  Howards,  their  grief  and  cha 
grin  were  excessive ;  they  had  hoped  a  dif 
ferent  fate  for  their  beautiful  home,  and 
could  hardly  be  reconciled  to  the  ill  luck 
that  had  given  it  to  so  repulsive  a  purchaser. 
They  found  many  to  sympathize  in  their  re- 


62  THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD. 

gret  at  the  termination  of  the  sale,  and  tem 
porary  homes  were  freely  offered  them,  until 
they  could  make  some  arrangements  for  the 
future.  Mr.  Jenkins  also  sought  them  out, 
to  inform  them,  in  his  unpleasant  nasal 
twang,  that  he  would  call  in  the  evening, 
and  talk  with  them  about  the  time  when  he 
should  expect  them  to  give  him  possession 
of  his  domains,  at  the  same  time  assuring 
them  he  was  in  no  haste,  and  advising  them 
to  make  no  hurried  arrangements  about  mov 
ing —  a  piece  of  kindness  which  they  could 
hardly  bring  themselves  to  thank  him  for. 

Gradually  the  crowds  dispersed,  stillness 
settled  upon  the  household,  evening  came, 
and  found  them  gathered  in  the  usual  sitting- 
room — plunged  in  deeper  dejection  than 
ever.  The  dwelling  did  not  seem  much  dis 
mantled,  for  Mr.  Jenkins  had  bid  in  nearly 
every  thing  of  value,  and  but  little  change 
was  visible  in  the  interior  of  the  house.  But 
it  would  have  been  pleasanter  to  the  orphans, 
had  the  choice  treasures  of  the  mansion  been 
scattered  among  the  people  of  their  acquaint 
ance;  it  would  have  seemed  less  like  sacrilege 
than  to  have  had  them  retained  by  this  un 
couth,  unrefined  specimen  of  the  human  race. 

" Only  think  of  it!"  said  Henry;  "all  fa- 


THE   SALE    OF   THE   HOMESTEAD.  63 

ther's  books  are  going  to  that  booby,  who, 
I  dare  say,  can  hardly  read." 

"  What  under  the  sun  he  wants  of  a  libra 
ry,  I  can't  see  I"  continued  Fanny ;  "  or  of 
such  elegant  furniture  as  that  in  the  parlor." 

"  He  has  a  family,  I  suppose,"  said  Ellen, 
"  and  perhaps  means  to  bring  them  here  to 
live ;  that  is  my  opinion,  formed  from  the 
manner  and  kind  of  his  purchases." 

"  Oh  dear !"  groaned  Fanny ;  "  I  hope  we 
shall  move  miles  from  here  then,  for  I  should 
die  to  see  such  coarse  and  vulgar  people 
enjoying  the  conveniences  and  luxuries  pur 
chased  by  our  parents." 

"  Hush,  hush,  sister !"  mildly  reproved  El 
len  ;  "  it  matters  after  all  but  little  who  has 
bought  here,  since  we  were  obliged  to  sell. 
We  ought  to  be  thankful  the  property  has 
sold  so  advantageously  as  it  has." 

"Ah  me  !"  replied  Fanny;  "but  only  think 
how  different  it  would  have  been,  if  our  dear 
father  had  lived !" 

"  Oh  well,  Fanny  dear,"  was  Ellen's  sooth 
ing  reply,  who  was  just  ready  herself  to 
burst  into  tears;  "don't  let's  cherish  sad 
thoughts ;  heaven  will  provide  for  us  in  some 
way !" 

"Yes,  Ellen,  I  think  we  shall  be  cared 


64  THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAD. 

for!"  added  Henry;  "and  I  have  not  yet 
given  up  all  hope  of  grandfather." 

A  bitter  and  almost  mocking  smile  flitted 
across  the  faces  of  the  sisters,  but  before 
they  could  reply,  a  loud  knock  was  heard  at 
the  hall  door. 

"It  is  Mr.  Jenkins,  again!"  said  Henry, 
while  an  expression  of  aversion  passed  over 
the  faces  of  the  whole  family ;  and  taking  a 
lamp,  he  went  to  answer  the  summons.  But 
instead  of  beholding  the  lank  figure  of  Mr. 
Jenkins,  when  he  opened  the  door,  he  saw  a 
dignified  and  venerable  old  man,  with  silvery 
hair,  who  inquired  for  Ellen  Howard.  A 
thrill  of  joy  ran  through  Henry's  heart,  as 
he  invited  the  stranger  to  enter,  and  it  was 
with  the  utmost  difficulty  he  could  command 
his  steps  so  as  to  keep  pace  with  the  slow 
and  measured  tread  of  the  new  comer,  as  he 
showed  him  to  the  sitting-room.  The  old 
man  paused  a  moment  on  the  threshold  of 
the  room,  and  surveyed  the  interesting  group 
seated  within,  with  evident  emotion. 

"This  is  Miss  Ellen  Howard,  for  whom 
you  inquired,  Sir,"  said  Henry,  advancing 
towards  his  sister. 

Ellen  rose  to  receive  her  guest,  while  the 
old  gentleman  extended  his  hand,  and  grasp- 


THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAD. 


65 


ing  hers  warmly,  looked  earnestly  in  her  face, 
but  still  without  uttering  a  word.  He  was 
evidently  trying  to  master  some  strong  emo 
tion  within,  that  nearly  overpowered  him. 
But  Henry  could  keep  silence  no  longer. 
His  convictions  had  grown  stronger  every 
moment,  until  now  they  amounted  almost  to 
certainty.  With  a  kindling  eye,  and  a  glow 
ing  cheek,  he  seized  the  stranger's  hand,  and 
burst  forth  with  the  impassioned  inquiry — 
"Are  you  not,  Sir,  Mr.  Barton,  the  father 
of  my  mother,  and  consequently  my  grand 
father?" 

The  question  brought  fire  into  all  eyes, 
and  color  into  all  cheeks.  In  an  instant  the 
little  group  were  on  their  feet,  and  the  old 
gentleman  was  surrounded.  "  Are  you  our 
grandfather  ?"  "  Oh,  tell  us,  Sir,  are  you 
our  mother's  father?"  "  Are  you  indeed  our 
grandfather?"  were  the  queries  launched  at 
him  in  the  same  breath,  by  all  the  children, 
and  with  the  utmost  eagerness. 

"  Well,  well !"  said  the  old  gentleman,  with 
affected  brusquerie  of  manner,  starting  back 
a  little;  "this  is  a  pretty  way  to  treat  a 
stranger,  and  a  grey-headed  old  man,  too !  I 
don't  know  as  I  shall  want  to  own  such  a 
wild  set  as  grandchildren,  but  I  suppose  I 


66  THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD. 

shall  be  obliged  to,  if  you  are  the  children 
of  Henry  arid  Fanny  Howard." 

And  now  what  a  wild  burst  of  joy  there 
was !  What  jumping,  and  laughing,  and 
shouting  for  gladness  !  What  clapping  of 
hands,  and  essaying  of  hurrahs  !  What  tri 
umphant  reference  to  Henry's  fulfilled  pre 
dictions!  What  grateful  exclamations,  and 
rapturous  embraces  !  All  but  Ellen  seemed 
mad  with  delight ;  and  she,  poor  thing ! 
partly  from  the  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling, 
partly  because  it  was  her  only  way  of  ex 
pressing  her  deepest  emotions,  and  partly 
because  strongly  reminded  of  her  mother, 
sunk  down  and  wept.  Away  flew  the  young 
sters  to  their  mother's  room ;  the  large  arm 
chair  that  had  been  undisturbed  since  her 
death,  was  wheeled  out,  and  then,  invited  by 
five  noisy  tongues,  and  aided  by  five  pairs 
of  willing  hands,  Mr.  Barton  was  seated  in 
their  very  midst. 

"  But  what  are  you  crying  for,  Ellen  ?"  he 
asked,  dashing  away  a  tear  himself;  "what 
are  you  crying  for,  child?  are  you  sorry  to 
see  your  old  grandfather,  who  has  taken  a 
journey  of  six  hundred  miles  at  your  re 
quest?" 

"  Sorry,   grandfather  ?    sorry  ?"   answered 


THE    SALE    OP   THE    HOMESTEAD.  67 

Ellen,  "how  can  you  think  so?  but  oh,  if 
our  poor  mother  had  lived  to  see  this  day !" 

"  Yes,"  said  Fanny,  "  if  mother  could  only 
know  of  our  happiness !  if  she  could  only 
have  seen  you  before  she  died,  she  would 
have  closed  her  eyes  more  peacefully." 

"  Mother  does  know  of  our  happiness," 
said  Henry ;  "  I  have  no  doubt  but  from 
heaven  she  is  looking  on  us  now !" 

"  That 's  right,  my  boy !"  said  Mr.  Barton, 
as  with  moist  eyes,  he  looked  on  the  noble 
youth ;  "  that 's  right !  always  look  on  the 
bright  side;  let's  seek  to  be  happy  to  night. 
And  now,  how  are  your  affairs  ?  How  is  it 
about  the  estate  ?  When  does  the  sale  of  it 
come  off?" 

"  Oh,  it  is  sold,  grandfather,  it  was  sold 
to-day ;"  they  all  cried  in  a  pitiful  tone. 

"  Sold  to-day !  who  bought  it  ?" 

"  A  horrid  Mr.  Jenkins,  who  bought  every 
thing  of  any  value." 

"  Ah,  indeed !" 

"  He  overbid  everybody  on  the  estate,  and 
ran  it  up  to  seven  thousand  dollars." 

"  Seven  thousand  dollars  !  Whew  !  A 
pretty  round  sum  for  a  farm  like  this !" 

"He  bought  father's  library,  and  all  the 
parlor  furniture,  and  the  horses,  too !" 


68  THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAD. 

"  He  did !  Well,  well !  I  should  think  he 
did  pretty  well !" 

"  Was  'nt  it  too  bad,  grandfather  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  it  was." 

"  Don't  you  wish  you  had  got  here  earlier 
— just  a  day  earlier  ?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  do ;"  and  Mr. 
Barton  seemed  very  much  inclined  to  laugh. 

"  Why,  grandfather  ?  We  are  very  sorry 
the  estate  went  in  the  way  it  did  !" 

"  It  could  not  have  been  better  disposed 
of,"  was  the  singular  reply.  The  Howards 
were  astonished;  they  knew  not  what  to 
think  of  all  this.  But  at  this  moment  an 
other  knock  was  heard  at  the  door,  and 
Henry  ushered  in  the  "  horrid  Mr.  Jenkins," 
amid  the  stifled  exclamations,  "  A  disagree 
able  fellow !"  "  I  wish  he  'd  keep  away  to 
night  !"  "  Send  him  off  quick,  sister  Ellen  !" 
But  what  was  their  astonishment  to  see  the 
object  of -their  dislike  advance  towards  Mr. 
Barton  with  a  look  of  recognition,  and  a  low 
bow,  which  the  latter  acknowledged  by  a 
hearty  shake  of  the  hand. 

"  When  did  you  arrive,  Mr.  Barton  ?"  ask 
ed  Mr.  Jenkins,  respectfully. 

"  Not  an  hour  ago,"  replied  Mr.  Barton ; 
"  and  thinking  I  might  find  you  here,  I  came 


THE    SALE    OF   THE    HOMESTEAD.  69 

straight  to  the  house.  I  have  already  learn 
ed  how  well  you  executed  your  commission ; 
these  youngsters  have  been  telling  me  how 
fortunate  you  were." 

"  Yes,  Sir,"  replied  Jenkins ;  "  I  have  suc 
ceeded  not  only  in  getting  you  the  estate, 
but  all  the  valuable  property  besides." 

And  now  there  was  another  outburst  of 
astonishment.  "  You,  grandfather !  is  the 
estate  yours?"  they  asked  incredulously. 

"  I  expect  it  is,"  he  replied,  with  laughter, 
"  if  Jenkins,  my  agent  here,  tells  the  truth." 

"  Why,  grandfather,  is  it  really  yours  ?" 

"You  little  unbelievers!  yes,  it  is  really 
mine." 

"And  shan't  we  have  to  move  from  it?" 

"  Not  without  you  prefer  it." 

"And  won't  the  furniture  be  carried  away?" 

"  Not  a  splinter  of  it,  if  you  want  it  to 
remain." 

If  there  had  been  gladness  before,  there 
was  ecstacy  now ;  if  their  hearts  had  been 
full  before,  they  overflowed  now.  Susie  and 
Clara  climbed  into  his  lap,  and  almost  suffo 
cated  him  with  kisses ;  Fanny  and  Ellen  fell 
on  the  old  man's  neck,  and  wept,  and  sob 
bed,  and  laughed,  while  Mr.  Barton  himself 
cried  and  laughed  like  a  girl.  Henry  and 


70  THE    SALE    OP   THE   HOMESTEAD. 

Granville  took  Mr.  Jenkins  by  the  hand, 
"horrid"  and  "disagreeable"  no  longer,  and 
thanked  him  a  thousand  times,  and  asked  his 
forgiveness,  and  leading  him  to  the  sofa, 
bade  him  be  seated  among  them. 

"I  reckoned  you  wouldn't  feel  so  hard 
towards  me  when  you  come  to  know  the 
rights  of  'the  case !"  said  the  almost  unman 
ned  agent. 

"  There  now,  children,''  said  Mr.  Barton ; 
"  there  now,"  rising  and  putting  the  children 
from  him,  "  you  are  making  a  woman  of  me ! 
Poor  things,  I  did  'nt  know  as  you  cared  so 
much  about  your  home." 

But  it  was  long  before  calmness  was  re 
stored  to  the  household.  They  had  suffered 
so  long  and  so  keenly,  their  way  had  seemed 
so  dark  and  hedged  up,  such  despair  had 
settled  upon  them,  that  now  a  reversion  of 
their  fortunes  had  taken  place,  their  hearts 
were  too  full  of  joy,  their  bosoms  too  much 
charged  with  gratitude,  to  allow  them  to  set 
tle  .down  into  quietude  in  a  moment.  Mr. 
Jenkins  soon  took  his  leave,  and  then,  till  a 
late  hour  the  happy  children  sat  with  their 
aged  relative,  talking  of  the  past,  planning 
for  the  future.  The  events  of  the  last  six 
years  were  unfolded  to  him  with  all  their 


THE    SALE    OF    THE    HOMESTEAD.  71 

variety  of  light  and  shade,  and  his  tears  min 
gled  with  theirs  as  he  learned  that  their  moth 
er's  letters,  written  after  their  father's  death, 
had  never  reached  him ;  for  it  was  pleasan- 
ter  to  believe  the  post  had  miscarried,  than 
that  a  father  had  been  so  vindictive  towards 
a  being  gentle  and  tender  as  their  mother. 

And  now  had  commenced  the  beginning 
of  better  days  to  the  young  Howards.  In  a 
few  days,  masons,  carpenters,  painters  and 
other  artisans  were  employed  by  Mr.  Barton, 
who  never  did  things  by  halves ;  thorough 
repairs  were  made,  a  large  and  handsome 
addition  was  erected,  to  enlarge  the  already 
spacious  mansion,  and  when  "he  returned  to 
his  distant  home,  there  came  to  reside  with 
the  orphans,  a  younger  brother  of  their 
mother's,  with  his  wife  and  children,  whose 
business  it  was  to  manage  the  estate.  The 
sunshine  of  prosperity  again  beamed  on 
them;  the  studies  of  the  younger  children 
were  again  resumed,  their  long-tried  hearts 
were  solaced  by  the  love  of  their  new-found 
kindred,  and  throughout  their  after  lives 
they  had  reason  to  look  back  upon  the  day 
when  occurred  the  sale  of  the  homestead, — 
an  event  which  seemed  to  them  at  the  time 
only  fraught  with  unmixed  misery,  —  as  one 
of  the  most  fortunate  days  of  their  lives. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  REST. 


"  Pcvrva  domus,  sed  magna  quies." 

Where  ends  the  rugged  steep  of  life, 
And  pilgrims  stay  their  bleeding  feet, 

Ere  on  to  heaven  they  wend  their  way, 
A  house  of  rest  the  travelers  meet. 

Forever  is  prepared  its  couch — 

Forever  open  stands  its  door; 
And  so  alluring  is  its  rest, 

The  traveler  turneth  back  no  more. 

Though  small  the  house,  a  narrow  home, 
Yet  wondrous  large  is  the  respose; 

And  pilgrims,  bowed  with  many  a  care, 
Here  find  a  Lethe  lor  their  woes. 

God  hath  built  up  this  house  of  rest, 
And  bid  kind  Death  a  yigil  keep, 

To  lead  his  weary  children  in, 
And  seal  their  eyes  in  dreamless  sleep. 

And  angels  wait  without  the  door, 
To  link  with  theirs  a  hand  of  love, 

To  lead  them  to  a  sunnier  land, 
Where  fraught  with  bliss  the  hours  will  move 


THE  SEWING  SOCIETY. 


"  Coine,  now,  Cousin  Henry,  do  give  me 
your  name  for  our  sewing  society;  wont 
you?"  said  Julia  Bradley,  coaxingly;  and 
laying  her  needle-work  down  in  her  lap,  she 
tossed  back  a  shower  of  curls  that  had  fallen 
over  her  bright  face,  rested  her  elbow  on  the 
arm  of  the  sofa,  leaned  her  chin  on  the  palm 
of  her  small  hand,  and  fixed  her  merry,  fun 
loving  eyes  full  on  the  sedate  face  of  her 
cousin. 

"  Pray,  Julia,  do  n't  teaze  me  any  more 
about  that  odious  society,"  was  the  impatient 
reply  of  Henry  Marston,  who  hardly  deigned 
to  raise  his  eyes  from  the  paper  he  was  read 
ing  ;  "  I've  told  you,  at  least  a  dozen  times, 
that  I  do  not  wish  to  join  it;  then  why  urge 
me  farther?" 

"Because,  my  sedate  cousin,  I  have  re 
solved  to  win  you  for  one  of  our  honorable 
and  honorary  members  —  and  it  is  a  matter 
of  conscience  with  me,  never  to  give  up  any- 

6 


74  THE    SEWING    SOCIETY. 

thing  upon  which  I  have  resolved.  Can't 
you  afford  the  fifty  cents'  admission  fee  ?  If 
not,  why  just  say  so,  and  in  five  minutes  I'll 
have  a  subscription  paper  started,  headed  by 
myself,  with  the  munificent  donation  of  half 
a  dime. 

"  Thank  you,  Julia,"  said  Henry,  still  por 
ing  over  his  newspaper;  "but  I  think  I 
could  raise  the  required  fifty  cents,  unaided, 
were  I  ambitious  of  joining  you." 

"  Then  why  do  you  persist  in  declining  my 
invitation?  Come,  do  lay  away  that  old 
musty  paper,  and  answer  me  !"  and  the  mer 
ry  girl  seized  the  journal  yet  moist  from  the 
printing  press,  and  laid  it  beside  her  on  the 
sofa.  "  Now,  Mr.  Sedateness,  please  tell  me 
why  you  refuse  to  join  our  society,  and  to 
associate  with  us,  evenings,  as  other  young 
gentlemen  do." 

"Let  me  answer  your  question  in  true 
Yankee  style,  by  asking  another.  Of  what 
benefit  is  your  society  ?  What  good  has  it 
ever  accomplished?  I  know  of  a  deal  of 
mischief  that  it  has  done,  but  I  have  yet  to 
learn  that  it  has  accomplished  any  good." 

"  Mischief!"  and  Julia's  red  lips  pouted  a 
little.  "Mischief,  sir!  What  mischief  has 
it  caused  ?  I  have  never  known  any." 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY.  75 

"  Only  think  how  much  of  the  current  gos 
sip  of  the  town  has  its  origin  in  that  society. 
Why,  even  you,  Julia,  complain  of  the  scan 
dal-propagating  propensities  of  some  of  its 
members." 

"  La !  is  that  all  you  mean  ?" 

"Then  add  to  this  the  offence  that  has 
been  given  to  some  of  our  best  people,  by 
your  wild  way  of  passing  ^the  evenings  —  in 
playing  backgammon,  chess,  checkers,  and 
whist,  in  singing  silly  love  ditties,  in  dancing 
and  similar  amusements  —  and  remember 
how  much  ill  feeling  this  has  engendered 
between  the  older  and  younger  members ;  ill- 
feeling  that,  in  some  instances,  has  grown 
into  positive  hatred,  and  occasioned  a  war 
of  words,  if  nothing  worse." 

"  Do  n't  make  a  mountain  out  of  a  mole 
hill,  Henry.  But  very  few  of  our  number 
have  become  disaffected,  and  though  I  con 
fess  we  have  been  wild  sometimes,  yet  it 
ought  to  be  remembered  that  we  are  young, 
in  the  very  heyday  of  life." 

"  Well,  tell  me  of  some  good  that  the  soci 
ety  has  accomplished,  that  will  counterbal 
ance  even  this  reduced  evil." 

u  There  is  little  that  we  can  do  —  there  is 
no  opportunity  for  us  to  be  useful  in  this* 
to 


76  THE    SEWING    SOCIETY. 

,  village.  Our  church  is  completed,  and  hand 
somely  furnished,  and  is  all  paid  for;  our 
society  is  free  from  debt,  our  library  well 
stocked;  so  that  really,  there  is  little  or  noth 
ing  for  us  to  do." 

"  Nothing  for  you  to  do  /"  and  Henry's 
face  grew  earnest  in  its  expression,  and  he 
spoke  sternly.  "  Look  at  widow  Foster,  in 
the  lane,  who  has  seven  children,  all  save  the 
eldest  looking  to  her  for  support.  Think 
how  much  you  might  cheer  that  lone,  strug 
gling  woman,  by  meeting  an  afternoon  at  her 
humble  home,  carrying  your  own  provisions 
for  supper,  and  such  donations  as  you  could 
afford,  all  of  you  during  the  afternoon  sewing 
for  herself  and  fatherless  children." 

"  But  I  do  n't  think  Mrs.  Foster  would  like 
such  an  arrangement.  People  say  she  is 
very  proud-spirited." 

"  I  know  her  better  than  that ;  she  is  not 
proud-spirited.  Then  there  is  poor  old  Mrs. 
Howard,  whose  children  are  dead,  and  who 
lives  alone,  under  the  hill ;  would  not  a  pres 
ent  of  warm  clothing,  for  this  coming  winter, 
be  acceptable,  and  would  she  not  bless  you 
for  remembering  her  ?" 

"Dear  me!  Henry,  you  ought  to  be  chosen 
one  of  the  selectmen ;  for  I  verily  believe 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY.  .        77 

you  know  more  about  the  town's  poor  than 
any  one  else." 

"I  do  know  this,  Julia,  that  there  are  in 
this  thriving  village,  individuals  suffering 
from  such  poverty  and  distress  as  only  God 
knows  —  and  I  do  also  know,  that  this  sew 
ing  society,  which  you  urge  me  to  join,  and 
which  does  nothing  hut  gossip,  drink  tea, 
and  flirt  away  the  blessed  evenings,  might 
relieve  a  large  portion  of  it,  if  it  would." 

"But  you  would  not  have  us  take  the  busi 
ness  of  the  town  out  of  the  hands  of  the 
selectmen,  I  hope.  If  you  are  going  to 
make  this  a  condition  on  which  you  will  join 
us,  I  think  Doomsday  will  find  you  still  out 
of  our  circle." 

"And  I  am  certainly  willing  that  it  should, 
unless  the  character  of  the  society  be  some 
what  changed,  and  it  assume  a  more  useful 
aspect.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  shall  I  be 
willing  to  give  you  my  name." 

"And  so  I  am  to  consider  it  decided,  my 
utilitarian  cousin !  Well,  it  is  all  for  the 
best  that  you  should  not  join  us,  probably, 
for  I  am  sure  nobody  but  myself  could  ever 
bide  your  interminable  preachments.  Let  me 
tell  you,  cousin  Henry,  that  you  are  predes 
tined,  predetermined  and  foreordained  to  be 


78  THE    SEWING    SOCIETY. 

a  rusty,  crusty,  fusty  old  bachelor,  and  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  pity  the  woman 
that  ever  persuades  you  to  be  anything  else. 
So  good  morning  to  you  and  your  stale 
newspaper."  And  the  lively,  pretty  little 
maiden  bounded  out  of  the  room,  carolling 
as  she  went,  the  words  of  the  song, 

"Liberty  for  me, 
No  man's  wife  I'll  be,"  etc. 

"  Heartless  girl !"  were  the  words  that 
burst  from  Henry's  lips,  as  the  door  closed 
after  her;  and  then,  for  a  long  time,  he  stood 
with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  and  bis 
head  bowed,  evidently  in  deep  thought. 
"Yes,  she  is,  indeed,  heartless!"  was  the 
conclusion  to  which  he  came  at  last,  and 
which  seemed  so  certain,  that,  unconsciously, 
he  uttered  it  aloud. 

Never  was  he  more  in  error.  Julia  Brad 
ley  was,  by  no  means,  a  heartless  girl.  She 
was  light-hearted,  for  nature  had  richly  en 
dowed  her  with  a  cheerful  disposition,  she 
was  free  from  care,  and  untouched  by  sor 
row.  She  differed  from  her  cousin  Henry  in 
that  she  always  saw  first  the  bright  side  of 
any  picture,  while  the  dark  side  appeared 
first  to  him;  she  saw  but  the  "  silver  lining" 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY.  79 

of  the  cloud,  while  to  him,  whatever  cloud 
gloomed  over  his  head  was,  indeed,  but  the 
"  blackness  of  darkness."  Like  the  bee,  she 
drew  honey  from  every  flower,  and  knew 
how  to  be  happy  under  all  circumstances. 
But,  although  she  laughed  more  than  she 
wept,  and  talked  more  in  gay  and  jesting 
language  than  in  serious,  measured  phrase, 
yet  no  one  felt  more  keenly  than  she  the  mis 
eries  of  others,  and  few  moved  with  such 
alacrity  to  their  relief.  Innocent  and  guile 
less  herself,  she  believed  others  to  be  so,  and 
lived  in  the  blissfulness  of  childlike  faith  in 
the  world's  goodness,  and  its  constantly 
increasing  wisdom,  while  a  knowledge  of  the 
actual  sin  and  oppression  of  the  world  gath 
ered  gloom  upon  the  heart  of  her  cousin, 
and,  at  times,  almost  maddened  his  brain. 
While  his  heart  was  like  the  "  river  sponge, 
constantly  saturated  with  the  passing  streams 
of  another's  sorrow,"  hers  was  more  like  the 
blessed  sunlight,  forever  imparting  warmth 
and  light  to  all  who  came  under  her  influ 
ence.  With  true  womanly  intuition,  she 
fully  comprehended  the  depths  of  her  cous 
in's  serious  and  somewhat  stern  nature  ; 
while  he,  with  man's  frequent  obtuseness, 
where  woman  is  the  object  of  scrutiny, 


80  THE    SEWING   SOCIETY. 

judged  her  to  be  heartless,  weak,  and  super 
ficial  in  character,  if  not  feeble  in  intellect, 

Henry  was,  however,  more  correct  in  his 
estimate  of  the  sewing  society,  concerning 
which  he  expressed  so  much  dissatisfaction. 
Originally  benevolent  in  its  aim,  and  useful 
in  its  results,  it  had  sadly  degenerated  with 
the  influx  of  young  and  giddy  people  into  its 
midst.  Amusement  seemed  now  to  be  the 
whole  object  for  which  the  young  people 
met;  for  of  these  was  the  society  mainly 
composed,  the  elder  and  more  sedate  portion 
of  the  body  having  withdrawn,  in  conse 
quence  of  the  introduction  of  somewhat 
questionable  amusements  into  the  evening 
entertainments.  This  secession  had  caused 
much  hard  feeling,  and  many  ill-natured  re 
marks ;  while  the  young  people,  left  more 
free  to  follow  their  tastes  than  ever,  by  the 
withdrawal  of  their  elders,  ran  the  giddiest 
round  of  frolic  and  fun  imaginable.  It  was 
not  long  before  the  evening  session  of  the 
once  staid,  practical  society,  became  charac 
terized  by  an  extravagance  of  display  and 
parade,  a  lawlessness  of  demeanor,  and  an 
abandonment  of  the  whole  company  to  the 
most  riotous  pleasure,  that  would  have  ren 
dered  obnoxious  even  a  large  and  fashion- 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY.  81 

able  party  in  that  somewhat  quiet  town. 
There  was,  indeed,  need  of  reform. 

Julia  had  felt  this  for  sometime,  though 
she  had  said  nothing  of  the  sort,  and  was 
generally  the  gayest  of  the  gay  at  these 
gatherings,  the  first  at  the  society,  and  the 
last  to  leave  it.  Henry's  strictures  led  her  to 
carry  out  instantly  a  resolution  she  had  been 
long  forming  —  and  in  fifteen  minutes  after 
their  conversation,  above  narrated,  she  had 
flung  on  hat  and  shawl,  and  started  on  her 
mission.  It  needed  but  few  arguments  from 
her,  the  village  favorite,  to  convince  the 
young  people  that  a  reformation  was  neces 
sary  in  their  sewing  society,  and  but  little 
persuasion  to  obtain  from  them  a  promise  to 
aid  in  revolutionizing  the  little  community 
that  had  so  sadly  deteriorated. 

But  it  was  a  more  difficult  task  to  bring 
back  the  seceders  from  the  society,  and  to 
restore  the  disaffected.  They  were  older, 
firmer,  and  not  so  easily  won.  But  who  can 
long  resist  the  influence  of  kind  and  gentle 
persuasion  ?  Julia  apologized  to  the  senior 
ladies  who  had  been  shocked  at  the  wild 
frolics  of  herself  and  young  friends,  prom 
ised  amendment,  portrayed  graphically  wid 
ow  Foster's  sufferings,  and  the  aid  that 


82  THE    SEWING    SOCIETY. 

might  be  afforded  her,  would  the  matrons 
but  return  to  their  old  posts,  and  coaxed 
and  persuaded  and  removed  obstacles  —  and 
gradually,  the  ice  thawed  from  their  manners 
and  their  hearts,  and  one  after  another  con 
sented  "  to  be  present  at  one  more  meeting 
of  the  society." 

The  next  thing  was  to  obtain  widow  Fos 
ter's  permission  for  the  society  to  meet  with 
her,  and  aid  her  as  they  were  able.  This 
was  easily  effected.  Now,  although,  really, 
Julia  had  accomplished  all  this  herself,  yet 
she  had  worked  in  such  a  way,  that  her 
agency,  at  the  time,  was  hardly  seen  or 
acknowledged.  She  had  conversed  with 
one,  reconciled  another,  won  over  a  third, 
and  then  had  led  these  to  influence  others  in 
the  same  way,  until,  finally,  the  "whole  lump 
was  leavened ;"  and  yet,  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  even  those  influenced,  to  tell  who 
was  the  prime  mover  in  this  reform. 

Great  was  the  stare  of  astonishment  from 
those  who  were  not  in  the  secret,  when,  on 
the  next  sabbath,  at  the  close  of  the  after 
noon  service,  the  good  minister  read  from 
the  pulpit  the  secretary's  notice,  that  "  the 
next  meeting  of  the  ladies'  sewing  society 
would  be  held  on  the  ensuing  Wednesday,  at 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY.  83 

the  residence  of  Mrs.  Foster."  Henry  cast  a 
quick,  sudden  glance  down  the  pew  where 
his  cousin  sat,  looking  as  demure  as  her 
mirth-loving  eyes,  and  roguish  mouth,  round 
which  the  dimples  were  ever  playing  at 
"hide  and  seek"  would  permit  —  but  her 
countenance  revealed  nothing.  And  when, 
afterwards,  he  inquired  of  her  as  to  the  orig 
inator  of  this  new  movement,  he  only  learned 
from  her  that  "  some  of  the  ladies  had  laid 
the  plan;"  notwithstanding  which  evasion, 
however,  he  saw  through  the  whole,  and  his 
heart  grew  light  in  his  bosom,  as  he  recalled 
his  decision  of  a  few  days  before,  and  said 
to  himself,  "  she  is  not  heartless,  after  all." 

Wednesday  afternoon  came — clear,  bright 
and  cool.  An  October  sun  shed  down  a 
most  glorious  and  mellow  light  on  the  gor 
geously  apparelled  forest,  «on  the  brown 
fields,  and  rippling  streams,  whose  music 
was  so  soon  to  be  hushed,  and  whose  danc 
ing  feet  stayed  by  the  fettering  ice  of  winter. 
As  early  as  one  o'clock,  the  society  began  to 
assemble  at  the  humble  dwelling  of  widow 
Foster;  for  the  etiquette  that  obtains  so 
widely  in  cities,  is  little  regarded  in  our 
country  villages,  and  the  earlier  that  com 
panies  assembling  for  an  afternoon  can  get 


84  THE    SEWING   SOCIETY. 

together,  the  better.  There  was  a  general 
turn-out  of  all  who  had  ever  been  connected 
with  the  society,  and  the  little  domicil  of  the 
poor  widow  was  crowded  to  its  utmost 
capacity.  All  came,  bearing  some  substan 
tial  present  for  the  widow  or  her  children,  or 
if  any  had  failed  to  provide  any  other  gift,  a 
broad  piece  of  silver  or  a  bank  note  was 
thrust  into  the  good  woman's  hand.  Loads 
of  wood  were  thrown  off  into  her  wood- 
house,  a  barrel  of  flour  was  rolled  into  her 
kitchen,  cotton  cloth,  flannel  and  calico  were 
laid  upon  her  table,  from  which  garments 
were  cut  and  fitted  for  the  little  ones,  when 
nimble  fingers  moved  rapidly  to  complete 
them,  ready  to  wear.  Eatables  of  all  kinds 
stored  the  shelves  of  the  pantry,  groceries 
were  packed  away  for  future  use,  and  at  the 
hour  of  supper,  ihe  festive  board  was  heavily 
laden  with  necessary  food. 

It  was  touching  indeed,  to  witness  Mrs. 
Foster's  gratitude.  Poor  woman !  she  had 
toiled  on  for  years,  almost  unaided  and  un 
friended,  at  times  unable  at  the  close  of  one 
ineal  to  tell  where  the  next  was  to  be  ob 
tained,  yet  in  the  depth  of  her  darkness, 
sorrow,  and  poverty,  implicitly  trusting  in 
the  God  of  the  widow  and  fatherless,  who 


[THE  SEWING  SOCIETY.  85 

had  never  failed  her.  But  now,  such  a  per 
fect  avalanche  of  favors  and  blessings  was 
heaped  upon  her  that  her  heart  was  over 
whelmed;  and  as  one  after  another  came, 
bearing  some  donation,  grateful  emotions 
choked  her  utterance,  tears  trickled  down 
her  thin  cheeks,  and  she  could  only  press  the 
hands  of  the  donors,  and  utter  a  fervent 
"  God  bless  you !" 

Little  Ellen,  the  widow's  second  child,  a 
girl  of  ten  summers,  whom  consumption  had 
led  "to  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit-land," 
sat  bolstered  up  in  a  rocking-chair,  the  dead 
ly  hectic  burning  on  her  cheek,  and  the  bril 
liance  of  consumption  beaming  from  her  eye. 
Now,  a  warm  flannel  wrapper  was  given  the 
little  girl ;  then  some  one  sougKt  to  tempt  her 
appetite  with  a  transparent  jelly,  or  a  dainty 
confection  ;  or  a  pretty  book  was  placed  in  the 
emaciated  little  hand  ;  or,  which  went  to  the 
heart  of  the  little  heaven-bound  sufferer  more 
than  aught  else,  a  soft  hand  stroked  her 
smooth  hair,  warm  lips  pressed  a  kiss  on  her 
pale  brow,  and  a  voice  of  music  spake  to  her 
the  language  of  kindness  and  sympathy. 
Then  the  large  dark  eyes  of  the  patient, 
dying  child  grew  moist  with  feeling,  and  the 
faint,  but  eloquent  smile  that  illuminated  her 


86  THE    SEWING   SOCIETY. 

wasted  features,  told  of  the  angel  spirit  that 
animated  the  frail  form. 

It  was  astonishing  how  perfect  was  the 
happiness  and  unanimity  that  reigned  among 
the  members  of  that  divided  body,  on  that 
afternoon.  All  were  pervaded  with  the 
same  amiable  spirit  —  both  young  and  old, 
grave  and  gay  —  all  chatted  together,  all 
worked  together,  and  so  busy  and  happy 
were  they,  that  scandal  was  forgotten,  and 
quarrels  were  laid  aside.  Even  those,  who, 
in  their  hearts,  had  sneered  at  the  idea  of  a 
meeting  at  widow  Foster's  dwelling,  that  ill- 
looking,  ill-furnished,  unpainted,  uncarpeted 
old  tenement,  were  obliged  to  confess  to 
themselves,  that  seldom  had  they  passed, 
anywhere,  a  more  agreeable  afternoon. 

In  the  evening,  but  not  till  eight  o'clock, 
for  the  by-laws  of  the  society  were  now  to 
be  strictly  carried  out,  the  gentlemen  friends 
of  the  ladies  made  their  appearance.  Noth 
ing  was  said  of  backgammon,  whist,  or  danc 
ing,  yet  it  was  found  possible  to  pass  an 
hour  or  so,  agreeably,  in  pleasant  conversa 
tion.  Before  they  separated,  Julia  suggested 
the  propriety  of  the  gentlemen  making  a 
donation  to  the  poor  family,  and  instantly 
started  round  among  them  with  Willie  Fos- 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY.  87 

ter's  cap  as  a  contribution  box,  into  which  a 
little  shower  of  silver  coins  was  immediately 
rained  —  for  the  gentlemen  gallantly  deter 
mined  not  to  be  outdone  by  the  ladies. 

While  they  were  debating  where  to  hold 
the  next  meeting,  the  "  heartless  "  Julia  inti 
mated  to  the  president  of  the  society,  that 
she  had  ascertained  by  personal  inquiry,  that 
old  Mrs.  Howard,  who  had  outlived  husband 
and  children,  and  who  dwelt  alone  under  the 
hill,  was  entirely  destitute  of  winter  clothing, 
and  of  means  to  obtain  any ;  and  immedi 
ately  the  worthy  matron  appointed  the  next 
meeting  at  her  own  residence,  begging  all 
the  ladies  to  be  in  attendance,  as  they  were 
to  work  for  old  Mrs.  Howard. 

At  the  next  meeting,  the  names  of  a  num 
ber  of  young  boys  and  girls  were  presented, 
who  were  said  to  be  deprived  of  the  advan 
tages  of  the  district  school,  because  they 
lacked  clothes  to  wear,  and  books  to  use — ' 
and  a  vote  was  unanimously  passed  to  supply 
these  deficiencies  from  the  society's  treasury, 
which,  now  that  the  hearts  of  its  members 
were  open,  seemed  like  the  purse  of  Fortu- 
natus,  in  the  fairy  story,  inexhaustible. 

And  thus,  all  through  the  winter,  did  the 
society  zealously  labor.  New  life  seemed  to 


88  THE    SEWING   SOCIETY. 

animate  it,  and  from  having  nothing  to  do,  it 
passed  to  the  opposite  extreme,  and  became 
so  crowded  with  work,  that  weekly  meetings 
took  the  place  of  semi-monthly  sessions,  and 
even  then,  the  ladies  were  straightened  for 
time  to  accomplish  all  that  their  generous 
hearts  devised.  Many  who  had  ever  stood 
aloof  from  the  institution  came  forward  and 
joined  it,  helping  with  heart  and  hand ;  it 
rose  in  character,  as  it  increased  in  numbers, 
and  not  unfrequent  were  the  donations  made 
to  it  by  the  town's  people.  Kow  there  came 
a  small  sum  of  money,  now  a  few  yards  of 
calico,  or  a  piece  of  cotton  cloth,  while  even 
the  shopkeepers  with  whom  the  society 
traded,  became  so  munificent  as  to  sell  to 
them  at  cost. 

There  was  one  place  at  which  the  society 
had  long  contemplated  holding  a  meeting, 
but  sickness  in  that  household  had  prevented. 
This  was  at  the  residence  of  Mr.  Lambert, 
who  lived  in  a  miserable  dwelling  just  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  village.  Mr.  Lambert 
was  unfortunately  addicted  to  intemperance, 
and  though  capable  of  maintaining  well  his 
large  family,  and  naturally  kind-hearted  and 
well-disposed,  yet  through  his  criminal  self- 
indulgence,  his  poor  wife  and  children  were 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY.  89 

were  well-nigh  reduced  to  beggary.  Fruit 
less  efforts  had  again  and  again  been  made 
to  effect  his  reformation,  until  he  was,  at 
last,  given  up  as  lost  by  all  who  knew  him, 
and  people  only  thought  of  aiding  his  family, 
and  of  rendering  them  comfortable.  This 
was  the  sole  object  that  the  ladies'  society 
had  in  view,  when  it  proposed  to  Mrs.  Lam 
bert  to  hold  a  meeting  at  her  house  —  a  prop 
osition  to  which  the  tired  woman  gratefully 
acceded. 

It  was  late  in  the  spring  before  the  dissi 
pated  father  of  this  poor  and  sad  family 
recovered  from  an  illness,  brought  on  by  his 
excesses,  which  had  confined  him  to  his  bed 
all  winter.  But,  at  last,  one  warm,  beautiful 
May  afternoon,  when  the  balmy  air  was  vo 
cal  with  the  music  of  bird  voices,  the  hum 
of  insects  and  the  murmuring  of  rippling 
streams,  groups  of  the  village  matrons  and 
maidens  might  have  been  seen,  on  foot  and 
in  carriages,  laden  with  necessaries  for  the 
needy  family,  now  stepping  cautiously  over 
the  foot-worn  bridge,  and  now  climbing  the 
steep  hill,  on  their  way  to  the  cheerless,  com 
fortless  home  of  the  Lamberts.  Much  they 
found  to  do  that  afternoon,  for  the  mother's 
energies  were  crippled  by  her  great  trials, 


90  THE    SEWING    SOCIETY. 

her  spirit  was  crushed,  and  her  heart  well- 
nigh  broken,  so  that  she  had  folded  her 
hands  in  inactivity,  and  sat  down  in  indolent 
despair,  not  even  doing  what,  under  more 
favorable  circumstances,  she  might  have 
done.  But  under  the  busy  fingers  of  some 
forty  kind,  willing,  working  women,  gar 
ments  grew  as  if  by  magic,  and  soon  there 
were  completed  frocks  and  pinafores  for  the 
little  girls,  shirts  and  roundabouts  for  the 
boys,  articles  of  bed-clothing,  and  such  ap 
parel  as  the  father  and  mother  most  needed. 
Forth  from  a  basket,  of  dimensions  little  less 
than  infinite,  one  good  dame  produced  a 
donation  of  stockings  of  various  sizes ;  an 
other,  from  a  pocket  nearly  as  capacious 
drew  a  vest  for  the  ruined  father ;  while  a 
third  untied  a  huge  bundle  handkerchief,  and 
discovered  a  neat  cap  and  bonnet  for  the 
mother.  And  then  the  provisions  for  the 
inner  man!  "the  edibles  and  potables!"  there 
surely  could  have  been  found  no  greater 
quantity,  even  at  the  crowded  village  inn. 
A  faint  gleam  of  sunshine  came  once  more 
to  the  pale,  wan  cheek  of  the  drunkard's 
wife,  and  light  and  laughter  beamed  dimly 
again  from  the  eyes  of  his  haggard  babes. 
Yet  there  was  a  settled  look  of  dejection  on 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY.  91 

the  care-worn  face  of  the  wife,  that  told  of 
the  agony  tugging  at  her  heart  strings,  of 
the  bitterness  of  the  cup  whose  dregs  she 
had  not  yet  drained.  And  on  the  beautiful 
foreheads  of  the  innocent  children  sat  ever  a 
timid  yet  appealing  expression,  that  might 
have  found  utterance  in  the  language, 

"  Our  father 's  a  drunkard,  '  but  we  're  not  to  blame  P  " 

That  father  !  never  writhed  mortal  man  in 
more  agony  than  he  that  afternoon.  Like 
the  fabled  Prometheus  he  was  chained  se 
curely  to  one  spot,  while  the  ever-devouring 
vulture  of  remorse  preyed  pitilessly  on  his 
heart.  Few  went  within  the  little  bedroom 
where  he  lay  upon  his  couch,  and  those  few 
seemed  by  their  laconic  address  and  freezing 
manner  to  express  rebuke  and  dislike.  He 
saw  the  happy  matrons  and  maidens  as  they 
passed  his  narrow  door,  and  memory  brought 
up  from  the  abyss  of  the  past,  the  form  and 
face  of  his  now  sorrowful  wife,  when  they 
were  as  fresh  and  blooming  as  tho  gladdest 
arid  brightest  of  her  guests — the  time  when 
fortune  smiled  upon  him,  and  men  gave  him 
their  hands  in  confidence,  when  his  home 
was  happy  and  his  heart  light — and  the  con 
trast  between  that  bright  past  and  the 


92  THE    SEWING    SOCIETY. 

gloomy  present  was  so  painful,  'that  perspi 
ration  was  forced  out  upon  his  brow,  and 
low  moans  of  agony  wrung  from  his  heart. 
What  he  had  been,  what  he  was,  and  what 
he  ought  to  be,  all  came  up  before  him,  and 
so  intense  was  his  anguish  that  he  envied  the 
very  dead  who  slept  calmly  in  the  graveyard. 
Tea  was  announced,  and  as  the  company 
were  passing  to  the  kitchen,  where  the  tables 
were  spread,  Julia  Bradley  turned  her  head 
towards  the  room  of  the  sick  man,  when  she 
saw,  or  thought  she  saw  him  dash  away  a 
tear.     Pity  for  him  was  her  first  emotion, 
and   then   a   good    thought  came   into    her 
mind,  and  she  lingered  behind  the  rest  to 
carry   it  into   action.      Softly,   and   with   a 
pleasant  smile,  she  stepped  to  the  bed  of  the 
invalid,  and  with  her  silvery  voice  accosted 
him.     Language  of  sympathy  and   commis 
eration  he  was  not  used  to,  and  it  went  to 
his  heart.     Expressions  of  interest  in   him 
self  he  had  not  heard  for  a  long  time,  and 
all  form  of  reply  was  choked   down  by  his 
emotions.     But  when  the  good-hearted  girl 
spoke  lovingly  of  his  wife  and  children,  and 
praised  the   beauty  and  intelligence  of  the 
latter,  and  the  industry  and  activity  of  the 
former,  the  husband  and  father  were  moved 


THE    SEWING    SOCIETY.  93 

within  him,  and  he  wept.  Julia  had  touched 
the  right  chord  in  his  bosom. 

"  No  man  ever  had  a  better  wife  or  finer 
children,  and,  God  knows,  I  wish  they  were 
rid  of  me  entirely,  as  they  will  be,  before 
long — for  then  they'll  be  better  off;"  was 
his  earnest  remark. 

"  I  've  been  thinking  of  a  plan  to  benefit 
your  family  very  much,  only  I  fear  you  will 
not  fall  in  with  it,"  said  Julia,  hardly  daring 
to  broach  the  subject  nearest  her  heart  at 
this  moment. 

"  Don't  you  think  I  love  my  wife  and  chil 
dren  ?"  was  the  blunt  rejoinder. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  you  do,  as  well  as  any 
man — as  you  love  your  own  life ;  but  my  plan 
involves  some  sacrifice." 

"  And  do  you  think  I  would  not  make  it  ? 
I  would  make  any  sacrifice  for  my  family — 
I  would  lay  down  my  life  for  them !" 

"  Oh,  dear  sir,"  replied  Julia  with  solemn 
earnestness,  "if  you  would  but  make  this 
sacrifice,  if  you  would  but  lay  away,  at  once 
and  forever,  not  your  life,  but  your  death — 
that  which  destroys  yourself,  makes  misera 
ble  your  good  wife  and  innocent  babes  who 
yet  dearly  love  you,  and  who  cling  to  you 
when  others  cast  you  off!  Oh,  sir,  give  up 


94  THE    SEWING    SOCIETY. 

but  this  one  habit,  and  how  happy  a  house 
hold  will  yours  become !" 

A  torrent  of  tears  rained  down  the  poor 
man's  face  at  this  earnest  appeal,  and  he 
trembled  violently,  but  said  not  a  word. 

"  Why  not  abjure  forever  that  poison 
which  has  already  wrought  such  woe  in  your 
house  ?  Think  how  easily  you  can  become 
the  man  you  once  were,  how  easily  you  can 
again  make  your  wife  and  children  happy  ! 
You  have  but  to  resolve  to  become  a  temper 
ate,  sober  man,  and  to  keep  that  resolution, 
and  the  good  work  is  done !  Why  not  make 
such  a  resolution?  Oh,  sir,  do,  for  your 
wife's  and  children's  sake !" 

A  sudden  change  passed  over  poor  Lam 
bert's  face;  a  look  of  firmness  supplanted 
the  listless,  sad  expression  that  was  on  his 
countenance  but  a  moment  before,  his  lips 
became  compressed  tightly,  and  he  struck 
with  his  closed  hand  energetically  upon  the 
bed,  saying,  "  I  will  resolve !  I  do,  I  will 
promise  I" 

"  Let  me  write  it,"  said  Julia,  eagerly ;  and 
catching  up  a  New  Testament  that  lay  on 
the  table  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  with  her 
pencil,  she  wrote  on  the  blank  leaf  as  fol 
lows: 


THE    SEWING    SOCIETY.  95 

"  I  do  most  solemnly  promise,  in  the  pres 
ence  of  Almighty  God,  that  I  will  never 
again  drink  anything  that  will  intoxicate." 

Mr.  Lambert  took  the  volume  from  her 
hand,  read  slowly  what  she  had  written,  and 
then  taking  her  proffered  pencil,  wrote  under 
neath,  in  a  bold  hand,  with  a  firmness  that 
indented  several  pages,  "  JAMES  LAMBERT." 
"  So  help  me  God,  I  will  never  break  that 
promise,  Miss  Bradley,"  said  he,  handing 
back  the  book. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  sir !  Bless  you,  sir ! 
Bless  you !  I  am  sure  you  will  never  break 
it  !"  and  the  overjoyed  girl  pressed  the 
brawny  hand  of  the  inebriate  between  both 
hers,  hardly  conscious  in  her  ecstasy  of  what 
she  was  about.  Smiles  broke  over  her  face, 
and  she  turned  away  to  hide  the  tears  of 
which  she  had  no  cause  to  be  ashamed. 
Hope  and  resolution  lighted  up  the  eyes  of 
the  sick  man,  and  excitement  brought  a 
warm  color  to  his  cheek,  so  that  he  seemed 
almost  well  again. 

But  a  third  party  had  witnessed  this  little 
scene,  and  in  her  heart  -was  deeper,  more 
grateful  joy  than  in  Julia's.  Mrs.  Lambert 
had  missed  the  good  girl  from  the  tea-table, 
and  having  come  in  quest  of  her,  had  beheld 


96  THE    SEWING   SOCIETY. 

all  that  had  transpired.  A  slight  movement 
at  the  door  called  thither  the  attention  of  the 
husband  and  of  Julia,  and  there  stood  the 
completely  overwhelmed  wife,  big  tears  drop 
ping  like  summer  rain  from  her  face,  with 
upraised  hands  clasped  tightly  from  intense 
feeling,  her  lips  parted,  and  the  paleness  of 
excitement  blanching  yet  whiter  her  ever 
pale  features.  "  Oh,  my  dear  James !  my 
dear,  dear  husband!"  burst  from  her  over 
charged  heart,  as  she  rushed  towards  the 
bed ;  and  winding  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
she  sobbed  on  his  pillow  like  a  very  infant. 
The  sufferings  of  past  years,  his  deep  debase 
ment,  his  harsh  treatment  of  herself  and 
little  ones,  his  neglect  of  his  family — all,  all 
were  forgotten,  the  tenderness  of  their  early 
affection  came  back  in  all  its  freshness,  and 
the  lips  of  the  so  long  unhappy,  and  almost 
alienated  couple,  met  in  a  kiss. 

It  was  soon  known  by  all  in  the  house  that 
Mr.  Lambert  had  pledged  himself  never 
again  to  drink,  and,  greatly  to  Julia's  annoy 
ance,  the  circumstances  connected  with  it 
flew  like  wildfire  from  lip  to  lip.  All  was 
excitement.  Some  hurried  to  Mr.  Lambert's 
room  to  offer  their  congratulations,  and  to 
strengthen  his  newly  formed  resolution  ;  oth- 


THE    SEWItfG   SOCIETY.  97 

ers  gathered  around  Julia,  stunning  her  with 
praises  and  thanks,  while  the  children  of  the 
family  stood  at  a  distance,  and  looked  up  at 
the  fair  girl,  as  though  she  were  a  goddess, 
whom  they  mast  worship  afar  off. 

That  evening,  when  the  gentlemen  came 
to  gallant  home  their  wives,  sisters,  cousins, 
and  friends,  —  a  duty  they  never  failed  to 
perform,  —  Henry  Marston,  for  the  first  time, 
made  his  appearance  at  the  sewing  society. 
The  occurrence  of  the  afternoon  furnished 
the  topic  of  conversation  for  the  evening; 
and  Julia,  poor  girl,  was  again  greatly  dis 
tressed  at  the  laudation  of  which  she  was  the 
object,  and  at  the  exaggerated  praise  of  her 
self  that  came  from  all  lips.  All  her  previ 
ous  good  deeds  were  dragged  to  light,  and 
she  became  the  lion  of  the  evening,  "the 
observed  of  all  observers."  Cousin  Henry 
sought  her  out,  and  commended  her  as  he 
had  never  done  before,  mildly,  but  warmly, 
and  her  eyes  were  bent  to  the  ground  by  the 
undisguised  admiration  and  affection  that 
beamed  from  his. 

"  I  believe  you  promised  to  join  us,  cousin 
Henry,"  she  said,  on  their  way  home  that 
night,  "  when  our  society  became  more  use 
ful.  Are  we  not  sufficiently  utilitarian  to  suit 
your  notions  now  ?" 


98  THE    SEWING   SOCIETY. 

"  Dear  Julia !  what  a  good  girl  you  are ! 
How  this  sewing  society  has  changed,  and 
all  through  your  instrumentality !  How  have 
I  wronged  you,  by  calling  you  vain  and 
heartless !  Forgive  me,  dearest  cousin,  for 
until  recently,  I  have  never  understood  you." 

"But  all  this  is  not  to  the  purpose,  Henry. 
Do  n't  wander  from  the  question.  I  am  sec 
retary  of  the  society ;  say,  will  you  give  me 
your  name  ?" 

"  Yes,  Julia,"  he  replied,  with  a  vehemence 
that  almost  startled  her;  "  and  not  my  name 
merely,  but  my  hand  and  my  heart.  Will 
you  accept  them?  Do  not  say  no,  for  my 
happiness  depends  upon  your  answering  yes. 
Tell  me  that  my  years  of  unspoken  affection 
are  not  unrequited,  and  promise,  gladsome, 
light-hearted  cousin,  as  my  own  dear  wife,  to 
infuse  into  my  darker  and  less  hopeful  na 
ture,  the  sunshine  and  happiness  that  dwell 
in  your  heart.  Oh  Julia,  be  mine,  and  teach 
me,  like  yourself,  to  make  the  world  better 
for  my  having  lived  in  it !" 

After  what  the  fair  reader  has  learned  of 
Julia's  benevolent  nature,  it  will  easily  be 
believed  that  she  complied  with  so  reason 
able  a  request.  But  we  are  not  skillful  in 
depicting  love  scenes,  and  must  leave  Julia's 


THE    SEWING   SOCIETY.  99 

reply  entirely  to  the  imagination  of  the  gen 
tle  reader.  Just  go  back  a  few  years,  and 
recall  your  own  language  and  manner  under 
similar  circumstances,  or  forward  a  few 
years,  and  think  how  you  will  act,  and  what 
you  will  say,  when  her  case  becomes  your 
own,  and  you  will  have  Julia's  answer,  at 
least,  in  substance.  But  this  we  will  tell 
you:  there  was  a  wedding  at  the  village 
church  that  fall,  at  which  were  present  all 
the  members  of  the  sewing  society,  Widow 
Foster,  and  her  little  ones,  as  well  as  the 
Lamberts,  who  would,  on  no  account,  have 
been  absent  from  the  bridal  of  their  benefac 
tress. 


LA  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELOS. 


I"  We  explored  the  cathedral,  of  which  mortals  had  built  the 
walls,  and  which  angels  had  capped  with  a  mighty  dome,  of  a 
symmetry  and  perfection  in  stonework  unequalled  by  human 
builders.  In  gratitude  to  the  supernatural  architects,  the  city 
has  since  been  called  'LA  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELOS/  or  1A»- 
OBL  CITY.'  "] 

Deep  they  laid  the  strong  foundations, 

High  the  massive  walls  upreared, 
And  the  tall  and  sculptured  columns 

Marble  forest-trees  appeared. 
Out  from  these  the  groined  arches 

Sprang  in  grace  and  strength  o'erhead; 
And  a  high  and  vaulted  ceiling 

Gave  the  heart  a  sense  of  dread, 

Stretching  dim  above  the  head. 

Then  they  built  the  lofty  altar, 

Whence  the  incense-flame  might  rise; 
Here  the  holy  cross  was  planted, 

For  the  sinner's  tearful  eyes. 
And  they  hollowed  shadowed  niches, 

To  enshrine  the  statues  rare, 
Which,  with  pale  hands  ever  folded, 

Seem  outpouring  ceaseless  prayer, 

Of  the  hallowed  place  aware. 


LA   PTTEBLA   DE   LOS   ANGELOS.  101 

Then  they  sank  the  tinted  window 

Far  within  the  massive  wall, 
That,  subdued,  the  slanting  sunbeams 

Through  the  pillared  aisles  might  fall. 
And  they  crowned  each  arching  buttress 

With  a  tall  and  gilded  spire, 
To  reflect  the  ruddy  morning, 

Or  the  glorious  sunset  tire, 

When  glows  red  day's  funeral  pyre. 

Never  lagged  the  weary  workmen, 

Who,  with  pious  zeal  elate, 
Raised  to  God  a  holy  temple, 

To  his  worship  consecrate. 
Never  lacked  they  gold  or  silver, 

Never  lacked  they  jewels  rare ; 
And  a  soft  and  shining  splendor 

Was  infused  into  the  air, 

From  the  gold  and  jewels  rare. 

So  they  wrought,  till  all  was  endedj 

Save  the  dome  that  capped  the  whole, 
When  -the  builders,  worn  and  weary, 

Rested  from  their  lengthened  toil. 
Night  dropped  down  her  starry  cnrtain, 

Midnight  hushed  the  world  to  rest, 
When,  adown  the  rifted  heavens, 

Softer  than  the  rosiest  west, 

Came  the  angels  of  the  blest. 

Brighter  than  the  woven  moonlight 
Were  the  robes  the  angels  wore; 

Brighter  than  the  sun  of  noonday 
Were  the  implements  they  bore. 


102     LA  PUEBLA  DE  LOS  ANGELOS, 

All  that  night,  a  murmured  music 
Rippled  out  upon  the  air; 

All  that  night,  the  heavenly  builders 
Toiled  with  superhuman  care, 
Toiled  with  skill  and  beauty  rare. 

Mortal  hands  could  ne'er  have  framed  it, 

That  unique  and  gorgeous  dome; 
Angels  only  could  have  planned  it, 

In  their  wondrous  angel-home. 
Toiled  they  on  till  dawn  of  morning, 

Noiseless,  save  their  heavenly  lay, 
When,  complete,  the  dome  was  burnished 

With  the  sunlight's  earliest  ray, 

And  the  angels  fled  the  day. 

Came  once  more  the  pious  builders, 
With  their  zeal  and  strength  new-born; 

But,  behold!  the  dome,  completed, 
Had  already  kissed  the  morn! 

Bright  and  dazzling  was  the  radiance 
From  the  gilded  roof  that  streamed ; 

And  the  cross  made  dim  the  sunlight 
With  the  brilliance  of  its  beam !  — 
Was  it  thus,  or  did  they  dream? 

On  their  knees  they  sank  in  wonder, 

On  their  knees  they  sank  in  prayer; 
"  Sure,"  they  said,  "  God's  holy  angels 
In  the  night  have  labored  here. 

Let  us  call  it  ANGEL  CITY, 

Where  the  Holy  Ones  have  wrought; 

And  let  rare  and  votive  offerings 
To  the  sacred  place  be  brought. — 
Do  the  angels  know  our  thought?" 


LA   PUEBLA   DE    LOS   ANXJELOS.  103 

Ay,  ~t  is  so.    Encamping  round  us, 
Angels  list  whate'er  we  say; 

And  they  come  and  go  about  us, 
In  the  night-time  and  the  day. 

Doubt  not,  if  thy  aim  be  holy, 
They  will  aid  thee  in  thy  need ; 

Doubt  not  they  are  watching  o'er  thee,  . 
When  true  purpose  shapes  thy  deed- 
Trust  the  angels  when  they  lead. 


LOST  AND  FOUND. 


The  softness  and  stillness  of  a  summer 
night  rested  like  a  blessing  upon  the  little 

village  of  N ,  that,  nested  in  foliage, 

redolent  of  flower  sweets,  and  glittering 
with  dew,  was  now  hushed  in  deep  slumber. 
The  hour  of  midnight  was  passed ;  the  de 
clining  moon  hung  on  the  edge  of  the  west 
ern  horizon,  magnified,  golden  and  glorious, 
while  a  thousand  calm  stars  shone  serenely 
from  the  blue  above.  Not  a  light  beamed 
from  the  windows  of  the  village,  save  where 
a  few  feeble  rays  struggled  dimly  through 
the  curtained  casement  of  the  sick  room,  and 
not  a  sound  broke  the  holy  quiet  which  had 
lapped  the  world  in  Elysian  slumber,  except 
the  tinkling  of  the  rivulets  and  the  gurgling 
of  the  brooks  along  their  pebbly  channels, 
the  occasional  note  of  a  bird  from  its  nest  in 
the  branches,  and  the  distant  plaint  of  the 
whippoorwill. 

It  was  at  this  still  hour  that  Charles  Vin- 


THE    LOST   AND   FOUND.  105 

ton  entered  his  native  town  and  wended  his 
way  to  the  residence  of  his  father.  Now  .in 
the  moonlight,  now  in  the  shadow,  here, 
across  sweet-scented,  dewy  fields,  there, 
along  the  worn  and  dusty  highway,  over 
fences,  bridges  and  walls,  through  orchards, 
barn-yards  and  gardens,  evidently  coveting 
secrecy,  and  seeking  to  abridge  the  distance 
lying  betwe*en  himself  and  his  destination  as 
much  as  possible,  he  kept  on  his  way  till  he 
stood  in  front  of  the  paternal  mansion.  As 
he  proceeded  up  the  tree-lined,  graveled  ave 
nue  to  the  dwelling,  Growler,  the  house-dog, 
sprang  from  his  kennel  with  a  furious  chal 
lenge  ;  but,  as  he  approached  the  intruder, 
his  fierce  bark  of  assault  was  softened  into  a 
growl  of  recognition  and  a  loving  whine; 
and  leaping  upon  the  young  man,  he  nearly 
overwhelmed  him  with  demonstrations  of 
good  will.  Returning  the  dog's  caresses,  the 
youth  walked  sadly  and  pensively  around  the 
house  and  its  grounds,  his  canine  friend 
bearing  him  company.  He  passed  into  the 
garden,  a  miracle  of  taste  and  beauty,  and 
walked  among  the  beds  of  flowers  that  his 
sister's  own  fair  hands  tended,  plucking  here 
a  pansy,  and  there  a  forget-me-not,  which 
were  deposited  within  the  leaves  of  his  mem.- 


106  THE   LOST    AND    FOUND. 

orandum  book ;  tie  sought  the  stable,  and  the 
stall  of  the  old  family  horse,  and  laid  his 
head  caressingly  upon  the  neck  of  the  petted 
animal,  as  was  his  wont  when  a  boy,  till 
memory  of  his  childhood's  days  brought  a 
tear  to  his  eye  that  trickled  down  upon  the 
mane  of  old  Roan :  then  he  stole  round  to 
the  front  of  the  house,  where  he  could  com 
mand  the  windows  of  the  apartment  occu 
pied  by  his  parents.  Here  he  gazed  long 
and  wishfully, — for  his  hopes  had  uncon 
sciously  taken  counsel  of  his  desires,  and  he 
almost  expected  the  white  curtain  would  be 
lifted,  and  that  he  should  see  his  mother's 
face  gazing  down  fondly  into  his  own  once 
more.  But  he  turned  away  at  last,  murmur 
ing  feelingly,  and  with  tears:  "Mother,  dear 
mother !  can  I  go  "without  seeing  you  ?" 
Then,  round  to  the  side  of  the  mansion  he 
crept,  to  the  low  windows  of  his  sister's 
bedroom,  and  pulling  aside  the  sweetbrier 
that  clambered  over  the  blinds,  he  thrust  a 
note  through  its  closed  slats,  and  sorrow 
fully,  like  Adam  quitting  Paradise,  turned 
his  steps  away  from  his  home,  out  into  the 
world  again.  Down  the  graveled,  shady 
walk,  out  into  the  highway  and  along  the 
dusty  road,  he  held  his  way,  Growler  yet 


THE   LOST   AND   FOUND.  107 

walking  beside  him,  not  turning  even  to 
glance  at  the  cottage  home  of  her  who  had 
been  his  playmate  in  boyhood,  and  who  had 
since  become  dearer  to  him  than  all  the 
world  beside.  No,  he  quickened  his  steps 
as  though  the  tender  associations  connected 
with  the  neighborhood  were  transformed 
into  avenging  furies,  whose  scorpion  whips 
were  scourging  him  onward;  -and  without 
even  a  farewell  look  to  the  home  of  his  gen 
tle  Lucy,  he  hurried  up  the  hill,  to  its  sum 
mit. 

Here  he  stayed  his  flight,  and  turning, 
looked  back.  Outstretched  before  him  lay 
the  village  where  he  was  born,  where  he  had 
played  in  childhood,  where  dwelt  those  dear 
er  to  him  than  life.  The  tall-spired  church, 
where  he  had  sat  beside  his  parents  and  sister, 
Sabbath  after  Sabbath — the  school  house, 
with  its  play  ground  and  its  little  belfry — 
the  streams,  where  he  had  fished — the  or 
chards,  where  he  had  spent  many  a  long 
summer  day  in  plays  and  happy  indolence — 
the  meadows,  where  he  had  tumbled  among 
the  heaps  of  new-made  hay — his  own  home, 
with  its  barns,  stables,  garden,  trees  and 
shrubbery — the  home  of  Lucy  Carlton — her 
home,  whose  name  he  hardly  dared  breathe 

8H 


108  THE   LOST   AND    FOUND. 

now  in  his  disgrace,  even  to  himself —  all 
these  were  before  him,  and  he  gazed  long 
and  earnestly.  It  might  have  been  five  min 
utes  that  he  stood  there,  and  it  might  have 
been  an  hour — Charles  Yinton  could  not 
have  told,  for  he  took  no  cognizance  of 
time.  Memory,  conscience  and  affection 
were  busy  within,  and  he  was  listening  to 
their  still  voices.  There  was  something  in 
the  place,  the  hour,  and  the  associations  of 
the  moment  that  went  to  his  soul;  aspira 
tions  after  better  things  than  had  been  the 
pursuit  of  his  youth  thus  far,  filled  his  heart ; 
and  as  he  stood  there  in  the  gray  of  the 
coming  dawn,  underneath  the  open  canopy 
of  heaven,  with  no  eye  upon  him  but  God's, 
and  no  witnesses  but  the  starry  sentinels 
above,  his  soul  uttered  a  wordless  renuncia 
tion  of  the  folly,  madness  and  dissipation  of 
his  past  life,  that  had  exiled  him  from  home 
and  happiness,  and  brought  sorrow  to  the 
hearts  of  those  who  loved  him,  and  he  vowed 
henceforth  to  be  a  MAI? — a  man  in  its  no 
blest,  truest,  highest  sense.  That  renuncia 
tion — that  vow,  were  registered  in  heaven. 
Stooping  to  the  faithful  dog,  that,  weary 
of  waiting  for  his  young  master  to  proceed, 
had  crouched  beside  him,  he  wound  his  arms 


V 

THE    LOST   AND    POUND.  109 

about  his  neck,  pressed  his  shaggy  head  to 
his  cheek,  and  weeping,  addressed  him  in 
tones  of  endearment,  such  as  a  mother  loves 
to  use  to  her  babe,  "And  now  go,  Growler ! 
good  dog,  go  !  good  by !  you  can't  go  with 
me,  so  go  back !  go  back !"  and  he  urged  the 
unwilling  brute,  till  he  turned  slowly  towards 
his  home.  Then — one  more  look  of  farewell 
—  one  more  speechless,  earnest  adjuration  to 
his  spirit  to  keep  the  vow  it  had  made  —  one 
passionate  invocation  of  blessing  upon  his 
angelic  mother,  and  upon  her  whose  name 
he  shrank  from  uttering — and  Charles  Vin- 
ton  commenced  the  descent  of  the  hill  on  the 
other  side,  and  soon  lost  sight  of  the  town 
of  his  nativity — perhaps  forever.  On  he 
walked  rapidly,  for  miles,  till  he  gained  a 
railroad  station ;  and  here  he  halted  till  the 
coming  of  the  puffing,  whizzing,  smoking 
locomotive,  with  its  train  of  cars,  on  its  early 
way  to  New- York,  the  commercial  emporium 
of  our  country,  when  he  took  passage  for  the 
great  metropolis. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  heart 
was  heavier  the  next  morning — Charles  Yin- 
ton's,  or  his  sister  Emily's.  The  note  thrust 
through  the  blind  was  immediately  perceived 
by  her,  on  withdrawing  the  curtain,  and  to 


110  THE    LOST    AND    FOUND. 

her  astonishment  and  distress  she  read  the 
following  half  sad,  half  comic  letter : 

"DEAR  SISTER  EMILY: — I  have  'taken  Time  by 
the  forelock,'  and  though  only  in  my  Sophomore 
year,  have  graduated  from  college  on  my  own  hook. 
To  be  sure,  I  cannot  boast  of  *  the  honors '  that  I 
have  borne  away,  as  I  have  only  the  honor  of  expul 
sion  ;  nor  have  the  faculty  awarded  me  a  '  sheepskin? 
DOT  the  title  of  A.  B. ;  but  rtimporte  ;  I  can  get  along 
without  them. 

A  party  of  us  rendered  the  trustees  some  unsolicit 
ed  service  in  their  building  operations.  They  were 
about  to  tear  down  some  out-buildings,  and  erect 
better;  and  to  facilitate  matters  we  put  a  few  pounds 
of  powder  under  the  half-tumbled-down  houses,  and 
sent  them  to  Jericho,  sky-rocket  fashion.  Some  lit 
tle  damage  was  done,  and  as  a  warning  to  all  lovers 
of  fun  and  gunpowder  explosions,  five  of  us  received 
our  walking  tickets  —  myself  among  the  number. 
Eh  bien  !  puisque  faifait  la  f ante,  tfest  a  moi  tfen  por 
ter  lapeine.  Except  for  the  sake  of  my  friends,  I  do 
not  regret  my  expulsion,  for  from  the  days  when  I 
blubbered  over  hie,  hcec,  hoc,  of  my  Latin  grammar, 
and  the  verb  tupto  of  my  Greek,  and  halted  at  the 
pons  asinorum  of  Euclid,  till  fairly  whipped  over  it 
by  my  teacher,  have  I  rebelled  at  the  idea  of  going 
to  college.  This  you  very  well  know.  As  to  a  pro 
fession,  the  deuce  take  the  whole  of  them  for  all  me. 
I  have  neither  '  clean  hands,  nor  pure  heart '  enough 
for  the  ministry;  I  detest  all  those  'gentlemen  of  the 
green  bag,'  those  dry  fellows,  Coke,  Blackstone,  Hale, 
Lyttleton,  and  the  whole  posse  of  them ;  and  as  to 
passing  my  days  in  pestilential  sick-rooms,  and  drug 
gist  shops,  in  counting  pulses,  compounding  medi 
cines,  administering  potions,  preparing  pills,  and 
spreading  plasters  —  ugh !  I  'd  never  be  a  physician. 

I  know  my  father  too  well  to  believe  he  would 
deviate  from  the  course  he  threatened  to  pursue; 
and  being  certain  that  he  would  'turn  me  out  of 


THE    LOST   AND    FOUND.  Ill 

doors'  if  I  should  venture  under  his  roof,  I  have 
resolved  to  get  the  start  of  him,  and  to  exile  myself. 
I  shall  see  his  face  no  more. 

Dear  sister,  our  father  is  a  good  man,  but  towards 
me  he  has  been  both  unjust  and  severe.  He  would 
make  me  what  God  and  nature  never  intended  me 
for  —  a  lawyer,  a  book-worm,  a  walking  encyclope 
dia.  I  would  be  a  busy  worker  in  the  world  —  a 
mechanic,  or  a  trader.  Father  would  lay  me  on  the 
Procrustean  bed  of  his  wishes,  and  stretch  me  out, 
or  cut  me  off,  according  as  my  proportions  are  longer 
or  shorter  than  those  of  his  ideal.  It  is  against  this 
that  1  protest. 

But,  sister,  though  I  am  now  an  outcast,  an  alien 
by  my  father's  decision,  which  will  not  be  revoked,  I 
will  yet  be  something  in  the  world.  From  this  very 
first  dayof  my  hegira,  I  will  turn  over  a  new  leaf;  I 
have  done  sowing  '  wild  oats ;'  I  shall  now  begin  to 
be  a  man.  You  may  never  hear  of  me  again ;  but  if 
you  do,  you  shall  hear  what  will  not  make  you  blush 
for  me. 

Ah  me !  what  shall  I  say  to  my  mother,  my  bless 
ed  mother,  who  loves  me  so  tenderly,  who  will 
grieve  so  at  my  disgrace,  who  has  eyer  been  to  me 
like  an  angel  1  Oh,  if  my  father  had  been  like  her, 
I  might  have  been  a  better  man !  At  this  very  mo 
ment,  Emily,  my  heart  is  yearning  towards  her.  I 
never  loved  her  more !  The  tears  are  wetting  my 
cheek  while  I  write,  andT  long  to  throw  myself  into 
my  mother's  arms,  as  when  a  child !  Sister,  crave 
forgiveness  of  her  for  me ;  and  for  your  sakes,  bless 
ed  mother,  dear  sister,  I  will  in  the  future  atone  for 
the  past  —  I  will  retrieve  the  character  that  I  have 
lost.  Hear  me,  oh  heaven,  for  I  promise  it  before 
thee ! 

There  is  one  other,  Emily,  whom  my  disgrace  will 
affect ;  her  love  I  have  forfeited  —  she  will  despise 
me.  Give  her  the  enclosed  note. 

And  now,  good  by,  mother  and  sister.  Remember 
me,  and  though  undeserving,  continue  to  love  me. 
I  have  my  mother's  miniature  —  it  will  go  with  me' 


112  THE    LOST    AND    FOUND. 

everywhere,  my  vade  mecum.  It  will  be  a  talisman 
against  all  evil,  it  will  be  my  Mentor  when  enticed 
to  wrong.  Good  by."  "  CHARLES." 

The  other  note  was  to  Lucy  Carlton,  and 
was  more  brief.  It  ran  thus : 

"DEAR  LUCY:  —  You  may  have  learned  before 
this  that  I  am  expelled  from  college,  for  a  character 
istic  act  of  fool-hardiness.  I  have  sorely  tried  your 
affection  heretofore,  and  I  know  now  that  this  dis 
grace  will  rear  a  wall  .of  partition  between  us.  Be 
it  so.  I  know  too  well  my  own  unworthiness  and 
your  goodness  to  dare  ask  for  aught  else.  This  note 
is  merely  to  say  '  Good  by '  to  you,  for  I  shall  not 
return  to  my  father's  house  at  present  —  perhaps 
never  shall. 

And  now  good  by,  Lucy;  you  are  free  from  the 
early  betrothal  that  has  made  me  happy  for  a  few 
short  years.  Although  my  own  foolishness  has  ren 
dered  it  null  and  void,  I  am  distressed  that  it  is  can 
celled.  There  is  exquisite  anguish  in  the  thought 
that  I  have  lost  you  by  my  folly  —  that  you  will  de 
spise,  renounce  and  forget  me — you,  whom  I  have 
loved  from  boyhood  —  you,  whom  I  love  at  this  mo 
ment  with  all  the  untamed  energy  of  a  passionate 
nature — you,  Lucy,  for  whom  I  could  lay  down  life 
itself!  I  deserve  only  your  contempt  and  aversion. 
I  can  reasonably  expect  nothing  more.  Farewell  !" 
"  CHARLES  VINTON." 

With  tears  and  silent  agony  Emily  Vinton 
perused  again  and  again  her  brother's  letter, 
and  still  she  sat  in  her  little  bedroom  and 
wept  over  it,  ignorant  how  to  communicate 
the  sad  intelligence  to  her  parents.  But  as 
she  still  sobbed  with  her  face  buried  in  the 


THE   LOST   AND   FOUND.  113 

pillow,  she  caught  the  sound  of  her  father's 
voice  in  loud  and  angry  tones  in  an  adjoining 
room ;  and  as  the  thought  flashed  across  her 
mind  that  Charles  might  have  acquainted 
him  with  his  expulsion,  by  means  of  a  note, 
she  hastened  her  toilet,  and  joined  her  father, 
to  speak  in  her  brother's  behalf  if  necessary, 
as  she  had  often  done  before. 

Mr.  Yinton  was  pacing  the  room  in  an  ex 
cited  manner  when  Emily  entered,  while  her 
mother,  pale  and  anxious,  was  poring  over  a 
letter,  a  glance  at  which  sufficed  to  convince 
her  that  the  penmanship  was  other  than  her 
brother's.  It  was  an  official  letter  informing 
Mr.  Yinton  of  his  son's  expulsion  from  col 
lege.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  father's  in 
dignation  ;  it  was  frightful  to  witness ;  nei 
ther  his  wife  or  daughter  could  check  the 
torrent  of  his  wrath,  and  when  Emily  pro 
duced  her  epistle  from  the  erring  one,  the 
father  ran  through  the  first  paragraph,  and 
then  dashing  the  note  to  the  ground,  refused 
to  read  or  hear  more,  and  commanded  Emily 
to  cease  her  excuses  and  pleas  for  him. 

"  Hear  him  i"  cried  the  infuriated  man ; 
"  hear  him  !  he  makes  light  of  his  disgrace, 
he  turns  his  expulsion  into  ridicule !  By 
heavens  !  but  that  fellow  is  enough  to  stir 


114  THE    LOST   AND    FOUND. 

older  blood  than  mine  !  Let  me  hear  no 
more  of  him !  I  disown  him !  I  disinherit 
him !  He  is  to  me  as  if  he  were  dead ! 
From  this  day  I  have  no  child  but  Emily ! 
Do  not  mention  his  name  in  my  presence 
again,  and  let  the  worthless  vagabond  be 
caught  again  on  my  premises — that's  all!" 
Sorry  words  these  for  a  father  to  utter  con 
cerning  a  child. 

Not  thus  was  Mrs.  Vinton  affected  ;  she 
was  overwhelmed  with  grief.  For  a  time 
her  agony  was  so  intense,  it  seemed  as  if  it 
would  kill  her.  She  had  always  feared  lest 
her  wild,  impulsive,  passionate  boy,  whose 
tastes  and  wishes  were  wholly  at  variance 
with  his  father's,  would  fall  under  that  fa 
ther's  ban ;  and  tremblingly  had  she  watched 
the  gathering  of  that  storm  which  had  now 
burst  upon  them  in  such  fury,  unable  to  avert 
it.  But  now,  how  her  heart  went  out  after 
her  erring  boy !  It  was  agony  to  her  to 
think  that  he  was  cast  out  friendless,  penni 
less  and  alone,  to  the  tender  mercies  of  a 
cold  world ;  and  her  heart  died  within  her 
as  she  thought  of  the  want  and  privation  to 
which  he  must  necessarily  be  subjected,  if 
standing  alone  in  the  world.  Oh,  how  she 
longed  to  fold  him  to  her  heart !  How  her 


THE    LOST    AND    FOUND.  115 

arms  reached  out  involuntarily,  as  if  to  en 
circle  him !  With  what  touching,  endearing 
epithets  she  coupled  his  name !  Could  she 
be  reconciled  to  the  thought  that  she  might 
never  again  see  her  beautiful  Charles,  who 
was  so  generous  in  his  impulses,  so  joyous  in 
spirit,  so  full  of  frolic  and  fun  ?  who  possess 
ed  such  boundless  energy  of  character,  and 
such  a  large,  warm  heart  ?  Was  there  no 
clue  to  his  location?  Could  not  her  voice 
of  persuasion  and  affection  reach  him?  It 
must  be  that  he  would  return,  and  his  father 
must  be  softened  to  forgiveness !  Never, 
never  could  she  abandon  him — never  could 
her  heart  close  against  him.  And  the  an 
guish  of  the  poor,  restless,  almost  heart 
broken  mother  was  pitiable. 

There  was  yet  another  to  whom  this  de 
fection  of  Charles  Yinton  came  with  a 
blighting  power.  This  one  was  Lucy  Carl- 
ton.  Too  sad  herself  to  communicate  in 
language  the  great  grief  that  weighed  heavi 
ly  on  both,  Emily  Vinton  placed  both  letters 
in  her  hand,  and  bade  her  read.  Rapidly 
her  eye  ran  over  both  notes,  while  the  color 
of  her  cheek  faded  and  faded,  till  she  was 
whiter  than  marble.  Yet  on  she  read,  to  the 
very  last  word,  and  though  a  tear  trembled 


116  THE    LOST   AND   POUND. 

on  her  eyelid,  she  did  not  weep,  and  though 
her  cheek  was  blanched  to  a  startling  white 
ness,  she  did  not  faint.  "Oh  Charles,  how 
little  you  have  understood  me  !"  was  the  only 
utterance  she  gave  to  her  feelings  in  the 
presence  of  Emily ;  but  from  that  day  Lucy 
Carlton  was  changed.  There  was  no  ado, 
no  violent  outburst  of  feeling,  no  passionate 
words,  no  hysterical  weeping — but  the  pale 
ness  that  came  to  her  cheek  at  the  announce 
ment  of  Charles'  departure,  became  habitual 
to  her,  till  all  ceased  to  ascribe  it  to  ill 
health.  In  a  few  weeks  she  moved  about  in 
the  discharge  of  her  duties  as  calmly  as  ever, 
sought  less  the  solitude  of  her  room,  and 
retired  less  to  lonely  haunts  in  the  forest — 
but  her  girlish  joyousness  was  fled  forever. 
The  whole  ebb  and  flow  of  her  feelings  were 
revulsed,  and  in  her  world  of  emotion  and 
affection  a  mighty  chasm  had  been  rent,  that 
ever  after  was  unfilled.  That  day  became 
an  epoch  in  her  life — for  on  that  day  she 
waked  suddenly  from  a  dream  of  bliss  to 
dream  no  more;  that  day  brought  an  abrupt 
transition  from  happy  maidenhood,  with  its 
dreamy  fancies,  its  budding  hopes,  and  rosy 
atmosphere,  to  suffering,  enduring,  patient 
womanhood.  A  new  tie  seemed  to  spring: 


THE    LOST   AND    FOUND.  117 

up  between  her  and  the  mother  and  sister  of 
him  whom  she  loved  —  a  tie  born  of  a  com 
mon  sorrow;  and  Lucy  Carlton  became  al 
most  one  of  the  family. 

Mr.  Vinton,  though  naturally  a  fond  father, 
was  yet  stern  and  inflexible,  impetuous  and 
excitable.  For  months,  and  perhaps  years, 
his  anger  burned  fiercely  against  his  son, 
who  fully  inherited  his  father's  fiery  nature  ; 
and  even  when  milder  feelings  came  to  his 
heart,  and  he  half  repented  his  severity  to 
wards  his  child,  his  lips  were  hermetically 
sealed  concerning  him,  and  none  knew  of 
the  father's  relenting. 

He  had  erred  greatly  in  the  education  of 
his  child.  From  his  infancy  he  had  destined 
him  for  a  profession ;  and  though,  as  the 
boy's  character  developed,  he  perceived  his 
disinclination  to  the  life  of  a  student,  in  no 
wise  did  it  change  his  purpose.  He  dealt 
with  him  as  if  he  were  a  mere  machine, 
which  it  was  only  necessary  to  wind  up,  in 
order  for  it  to  work  in  this  or  that  direction  ; 
and  while  the  boy  looked  longingly  to  the 
workshops  and  stores  at  whose  benches  and 
counters  he  saw  other  youths  of  his  age,  he 
was  despatched  to  school,  and  forced  into 
studies  that  were  detestable  to  him.  Ever 


118  THE    LOST    AND    FOUND. 

first  and  foremost  in  all  boyish  sports  and 
athletic  exercises,  Charles  Yinton  was  the 
last  in  his  class ;  and  during  his  irksome  con 
finement  in  the  school  room,  his  roguish,  fun- 
loving  nature  was  constantly  active,  greatly 
to  the  annoyance  of  his  teachers  and  the  de 
light  of  his  companions. 

After  incredible  pains  on  the  part  of  his 
tutors,  and  incredible  drudgery  and  heart 
burning  on  his  own,  he  was  declared  fitted 
for  college.  Active,  muscular,  full  of  life, 
longing  for  emancipation  from  the  school 
room,  its  tasks  and  governors,  catching  the 
sound  of  conflict,  strife  and  endeavor  that 
came  to  him  like  sweetest  music  from  the 
bustling  world,  as  the  "  war-horse  smelleth 
the  battle  afar  off,"  Charles  protested  earn 
estly  against  his  father's  determination,  and 
begged  for  a  chance  in  the  mercantile  or 
mechanical  world,  in  either  of  which  depart 
ments  he  would  have  excelled.  Mr.  Vinton 
was  inexorable ;  one  might  as  well  have  tried 
to  turn  back  the  incoming  tide  as  to  have 
changed  his  darling  purpose ;  and,  cursing 
Homer,  Horace,  Virgil  and  Ovid,  Xenophon, 
Plato,  Livy  and  Sallust,  Euclid,  Legendre, 
Newton  and  La  Place,  and  vowing  eternal 
hatred  to  themes  and  theses,  epics  and  pas- 


THE    LOST   AND   FOUND.  119 

torals,  problems  and  propositions,  the  reluctant 
youth  was  despatched  to  a  distant  university. 
It  was  only  through  the  softening  influ 
ences  of  home  that  the  frolicsome,  impulsive 
nature  of  the  young  man  was  held  in  check  ; 
consequently,  when  removed  from  the  re 
straining  influences  of  his  mother  and  sister, 
when  deprived  of  the  sanctifying  environ 
ments  of  home,  his  lawless,  tameless,  unbri 
dled  propensities  were  left  free  to  run  their 
wildest  race.  Heart  and  hand  he  joined 
every  mad-cap  adventure  that  was  planned, 
was  the  first  to  start  in  a  frolic,  and  the  last 
to  leave  it,  soon  lost  caste  with  the  faculty, 
and  obtained  the  unenviable  reputation  of 
being  the  veriest  "  scape-grace  "  in  the  insti 
tution.  Twice  was  he  suspended  during  his 
Freshman  year ;  and  his  father,  who  saw  in 
all  this  only  determined  opposition  to  his  will 
and  authority,  had  twice  received  him  with 
dire  displeasure  and  fearful  anathemas, 
threatening  him  with  disinheritance  if  the 
offence  was  repeated.  But  certain  as  was 
Charles  Vinton  that  his  father's  threat  would 
be  executed,  he  yet  kept  on  his  giddy  course, 
and  before  the  close  of  his  Sophomore  year, 
was  expelled.  The  consequence  of  this  ex 
pulsion  we  have  already  seen. 


120  THE    LOST   AND    FOUND. 

Time  rolled  away  after  the  flight  of  the 
disgraced  student,  and  the  lapse  of  years 
brought  a  sanative  to  the  hearts  of  those 
most  deeply  wounded  by  his  folly  and  its 
consequences.  The  place  of  Emily  Yinton 
in  her  father's  house  was  rendered  vacant, 
for  her  bright  face  carried  its  sunshine  to  the 
home,  and  her  fair  form  its  grace  to  the 
hearthstone  of  another,  whom  she  called 
"husband."  Thus  deprived  of  both  her 
children,  loneliness  would  have  been  Mrs. 
Vinton's  portion,  but  for  the  daughter-like 
attentions  and  affection  of  Lucy  Carlton, 
who  clung  to  the  sorrowing  woman  as 
though  it  were  the  last  hold  of  her  affections. 
Many  sought  the  pale,  shrinking  girl,  for 
there  was  in  her  face  and  manner  a  nameless 
charm,  a  certain  je  ne  sals  quoi  which  gained 
the  love  of  all ;  and  it  was  deemed  passing 
strange  that  all  suitors  were  alike  unsuccess 
ful.  A  calm,  but  kind  refusal  was  steadily 
given  to  all  who  asked  her  hand  or  heart — 
and  the  world  looked  on  and  wondered  that 
she  preferred  her  lonely  maiden  life  to  the 
joys  of  happy  wifehood.  Alas  !  the  world 
knew  not  that  her  heart  was  wandering,  wan 
dering  ever  over  billows  and  waves,  moun 
tains  and  seas,  to  the  dear,  hapless  alien  in 


THE   LOST   AND   FOUND.  121 

whose  hand  she  had  laid  her  own,  with  the 
promise  to  "love  through  all  things."  It 
knew  not  that  her  prayers  went  up  nightly 
for  him,  and  that  no  guilt,  no  disgrace,  no 
sorrow,  could  ever  divorce  her  from  her  alle 
giance  to  him. 

There  was  one  who  shared  her  secret — 
that  one  was  Mrs.  Yinton.  Together  they 
sat  in  the  purple  twilight,  and  in  the  darken 
ing  evening,  talking  of  days  that  were  gone, 
bringing  from  the  treasure-house  of  memory 
many  a  grateful  reminiscence  of  the  wander 
er — many  an  affecting  incident  of  his  life — 
many  a  kind  word  and  good  deed  that  had 
cheered  their  hearts,  till  tears  choked  their 
utterance,  and  they  wept  on  one  another's 
necks.  And  then  each  tried  to  soothe  the 
other  with  endearments  that  caused  the  tears 
to  flow  faster,  and  the  heart  to  ache  with  a 
more  remorseless  pain ;  and  each  whispered 
hopes  concerning  the  return  of  the  prodigal, 
that  to  both  seemed  deceitful. 

Oh,  weary  years !  how  slowly  they  rolled 
away,  marking  their  progress  by  the  snows 
they  scattered  on  the  head  of  the  poor  moth 
er,  by  the  furrows  they  ploughed  upon  her 
brow,  and  by  the  roses  they  stole  from  the 
cheek  of  Lucy  Carlton.  They  numbered  fif- 


122  THE    LOST   AND    FOUND. 

teen  at  last  —  and  all  hope  of  Charles  Vin- 
ton's  return  was  abandoned  by  his  friends. 
If  living,  they  feared  what  was  yet  worse, 
that  he  was  morally  dead;  ar\d  though  a 
painful  void  was  in  their  hearts,  and  an 
agonizing  memory  poisoned  every  pleasant 
draught  of  their  lives,  they  bowed  to  the 
Chastener  and  murmured  not.  To  Mrs.  Yin- 
ton,  these  long  years  of  trial  and  suspense 
had  brought  terrible  suffering,  and  health 
and  physical  vigor  were  ruined  by  it.  It 
seemed  as  though  she  would  soon  be  called 
to  exchange  the  trials  of  life  for  the  joys  of 
heaven ;  and  believing  that  death  was  not 
far  in  the  distance,  a  desire  seemed  to  spring 
up  in  the  heart  to  gather  under  her  own  roof, 
once  more  before  her  departure,  all  her  near 
friends  and  kindred.  It  was  perhaps  a  sin 
gular  wish,  but  none  opposed  it,  and  prepa 
rations  were  made  for  a  large  family  party  at 
the  approaching  Christmas. 

The  doors  of  the  mansion  had  formerly 
been  opened  -on  frequent  festal  occasions ; 
but  during  the  fifteen  previous  years,  fes 
tivity  and  hilarity  had  been  strangers  in  Mr. 
Vinton's  house.  But  now  Mrs.  Vinton  made 
a  temporary  truce  with  sickness,  sorrow,  and 
sad  memories,  and  rallied  herself  to  minister 


THE   LOST   AND   FOUND.  123 

to  the  happiness  of  others.  Lucy  Catlton 
was  pressed  into  the  service,  and  under  the 
auspices  of  the  tasteful,  thoughtful  girl",  the 
preparations  for  Christmas  went  on  right 
merrily.  Holly,  evergreen,  running  pine  and 
spruce  were  brought  from  the  woods  to  dec 
orate  the  parlors  in  true  Christmas  style; 
immense  quantities  of  cakes  and  candies 
were  prepared,  of  sweetmeats  and  fruits,  of 
puddings  and  pastry.  Last,  but  not  least,  a 
huge  bona  fide  pine  tree  was  transplanted 
from  the  forest  to  the  front  parlor,  on  the  top 
of  which  Lucy  placed  the  figure  of  an  angel, 
which  the  children  verily  believed  was  the 
Christ- Kindlein  himself;  while  the  boughs 
were  ladened  with  heterogeneous  fruit  — 
toys,  books,  bonbons  and  confitures — all  for 
the  grandchildren  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vinton, 
and  their  innumerable  grand-nephews  and 
nieces. 

The  evening  preceding  the  long- anticipa 
ted  festival  had  arrived,  and  though  it  was 
near  midnight,  Mrs.  Yinton  and  Lucy  were 
still  in  the  parlors,  putting  the  finishing 
touch  to  their  preparations.  But  finally  the 
last  taper  was  affixed  to  the  boughs  of  the 
Christmas  tree,  its  last  labelled  gift  was  ap 
pended  to  the  branches,  and  Lucy  removed 

9i 


124  THE   LOST   AND    FOUND. 

to  a  little  distance  to  contemplate  the  result 
of  their  labors,  while  Mrs.  Yinton,  wearied, 
sank  into  a  chair,  and  burying  her  face  in 
her  hands  gave  way  to  the  sad  thoughts  and 
feelings  that  rushed  over  her  like  a  flood. 
Tears  sprang  also  to  the  eyes  of  Lucy,  for 
she  divined  that  the  thoughts  of  the  mother 
were  with  her  son.  Both  were  started  from 
their  revery,  however,  by  a  gentle  knock  at 
the  outer  door,  that  would  not  have  been 
heard  but  for  the  deep  stillness.  Mrs.  Yin- 
ton's  hands  dropped  from  her  face,  and  both 
she  and  Lucy  remained  in  a  listening  attitude 
for  a  moment  or  two,  when  the  rap  was  re 
peated. 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?"  said  Mrs.  Vinton ;  "  it 
is  an  unusual  hour  for  a  rap  at  the  front 
door :  I  will  go ;"  and  swinging  wide  the  par 
lor  door,  for  the  hall  lamp  was  extinguished, 
she  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  and  looked 
out  into  the  avenue.  As  she  peered  cau 
tiously  out  into  the  darkness,  the  tall  figure 
of  a  man  advanced  a  step  or  two,  a  hand 
was  extended,  and  a  voice  tremulous  with 
feeling  uttered  the  one,  dear  word,  "  Moth 
er  !"  But  it  was  enough  ;  that  word  was  the 
open  sesame  to  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Yinton. 
"Charles!  Charles!"  she  feebly  articulated, 


THE    LOST    AND    FOUND.  125 

and  winding  her  arms  about  his  neck,  fell 
faintly  on   his   breast.      Taking  her   in   his 
arms,  the  powerful  man  bore  her  to  the  par 
lor,  and  placing  her  on  the  sofa,  bent  over 
her  tenderly.     "  Oh,  my  dear  boy  !"  she  con 
tinued  to  say,  holding  him  by  the  hand,  as 
if  fearful  that  she  might  again  lose  him;  "my 
dear  child  !  my  poor  wandering  boy !     God 
be  thanked  that  you  are  alive!     Father  in 
heaven,  't  is  enough  !  't  is  enough  !     Now  I 
am  willing  to  die!     Lucy,  dear  Lucy!     God 
has    been     better    to    us    than    our    fears ! 
Charles,  you  have  not  forgotten  Lucy  Carl- 
ton?"     Charles   turned   eagerly  around,  for 
his  mother's    presence   had   banished   every 
other  thought  from  his  mind,  and  his  emo 
tion  had  blinded  him,  that  he   did  not  per 
ceive   the   motionless,  pallid   girl/    He   ad 
vanced  to  offer  his  hand,  but  poor  Lucy,  who 
had    borne   up   under   trouble    and    sorrow, 
under  years  of  trial  and  suffering,  was  con 
quered  by  her  sudden  joyful  surprise ;  her 
eyes  became  dim,  her  strength  departed,  and 
she  sank  like  yielding  wax  to  the  floor.     Her 
swoon  was  long  and  protracted ;  both  Mrs. 
Vinton  and  Charles  were  in  agony. 

"Oh!    Charles,"   said  Mrs.  Vinton,  "she 
has  mourned  deeply  over  your  absence;  nev- 


126  THE    LOST   AND    FOUND. 

er  was  there  so  faithful  a  heart !  God  grant 
that  joy  may  not  kill  her !" 

With  tears,  with  passionate  kisses,  with 
tenderest  endeavors,  Charles  Vinton  used 
every  means  to  restore  the  insensible  Lucy  ; 
and  his  efforts  were  at  last  rewarded  by  see 
ing  her  blue  eyes  unsealed,  and  by  hearing 
her  offer  thanksgiving  to  heaven  for  his  re 
turn.  Blessed  hour !  after  fifteen  years  of 
struggling  with  life,  of  buffeting  its  waves, 
and  tossing  on  its  billows,  the  wanderer  was 
in  the  haven  of  his  early  home,  with  those 
dearest  to  him  beside  him. 

Till  the  dawn  of  the  late  morning  there 
they  sat — the  happy  trio — while  Charles  re 
counted  to  his  dear  audience  his  many  ad 
ventures.  How  they  wept  and  smiled  as  he 
told  them  of  his  many  weeks'  unsuccessful 
endeavors  to  obtain  employment  in  New 
York !  How  they  rejoiced  when  he  told 
them  that  he  finally  obtained  a  clerksliip  in 
a  Southern  city,  from  which  place,  after  hav 
ing  served  as  clerk  for  four  or  five  years,  he 
went  out  as  agent  in  one  of  the  vessels  own 
ed  by  his  employers,  to  South  America; 
where,  finding  it  possible  to  amass  a  fortune 
in  a  few  years,  he  had  pitched  his  tent  till 
the  present  time,  having  been  successful, 


THE   LOST   AND   FOUND.  127 

pecuniarily,  beyond  his  most  avaricious  de 
sires  !  And  how  proudly  his  mother  looked 
upon  him,  as  he  solemnly  averred  that  from 
the  day  he  left  home  he  had  been  guilty  of 
no  act  of  which  he  was  now  ashamed,  or 
which  his  father,  severe  critic  as  he  was, 
would  censure!  And  how  they  anathema 
tized  all  mail  arrangements,  and  post-office 
departments,  when  he  informed  them  that  he 
had  written  again  and  again  during  the  last 
fifteen  years,  and  receiving  no  answer,  had 
concluded  that  he  was  forgotten  and  unfor- 
given,  and  that  under  the  influence  of  this 
belief  he  had  hung  round  the  house  for  hours 
that  evening,  not  daring  to  enter,  till  from 
the  windows  he  saw  his  mother  weeping,  and 
felt  that  it  must  be  for  him !  And  how  his 
mother  kissed  his  cheek  and  brow  and  lips, 
and  Lucy  wept  on  his  shoulder,  as  he  asked 
if  he  was  indeed  forgiven  and  loved  fondly 
as-ever !  Blessed  moments  !  how  they  atoned 
for  years  of  suffering!  how  years  of  enjoy 
ment  were  compressed  into  their  narrow 
limits  !  All  felt  that  their  happiness  could 
only  be  exceeded  by  the  bliss  of  that  mo 
ment  when  the  pilgrim  of  earth  is  ushered 
into  the  noontide  glory  of  heaven  ! 

It  was  deemed  advisable  for  Mrs.  Vinton 


128  THE    LOST   AND    FOUND. 

to  prepare  her  husband's  mind  to  receive  his 
son,  for  though  it  was  evident  that  as  years 
had  lulled  his  passions,  and  cooled  the  fever 
of  his  blood,  he  had  relented  towards  his 
child,  and  regretted  his  severity,  yet  none 
knew  his  present  feelings,  or  if  the  past 
would  be  cancelled  under  the  circumstances. 
The  family  sat  down  as  usual  to  the  break 
fast  table,  except  that  Mrs.  Yin  ton  and  Lucy 
seemed  by  their  radiant  faces  to  have  been 
quaffing  the  very  Elixir  of  Life.  Notwith 
standing  the  sleepless  night  they  had  passed, 
their  eyes  beamed,  their  cheeks  glowed,  and 
their  spirits  overflowed. 

"  We  '11  have  a  Christmas  party  every 
month,"  said  Mr.  Yinton,  setting  down  his 
coffee  to  gaze  at  the  wonderful  transforma 
tion  of  his  wife  and  Lucy !  "  it  's  the  best 
cosmetic  yet.  Why,  wife,  Lucy  and  you  look 
ten  years  younger  than  you  did  yesterday! 
We'll  have  parties  often  after  this,  hey  ?"  • 

"  We  are  both  very  happy  in  prospect  of 
our  party,"  replied  Mrs.  Yinton;  "there  is 
but  one  drawback  on  our  happiness  ;  that  is 
the  continued  absence  of  poor  Charles." 

Mr.  Yinton's  countenance  fell  immediately. 
"Ah,  well!"  he  sighed;  "'we  shall  never  see 
him  again !" 


THE   LOST   AND   FOUND.  129 

"  I  do  not  despair  of  his  re.turn,"-  quietly 
remarked  Lucy. 

"  Could  you  forgive  him  the  past  if  he 
should  return,  my  dear  husband  ?"  anxiously 
queried  Mrs.  Vinton.  "He  may  be  kept 
away  by  fearing  you  would  not  receive  him 
home,  if  he  should  return." 

"  Pshaw  !  pshaw !"  impatiently  replied  Mr. 
Vinton ;  "  it  ill  becomes  us  at  our  age  to  talk 
of  not  forgiving  any  one — particularly  one 
of  our  own  blood.  I  was  perhaps  too  strenu 
ous  in  wishing  Charles  to  be  a  lawyer,  he 
was  too  mulish  in  his  opposition — but  it  is 
all  over  now." 

"  I  think  Charles  would  join  us  in  our  par 
ty  to-day,  if  he  were  assured  of  your  forgive 
ness." 

"What!     Charles — what  do  you  say?" 

"  Charles  is  in  the  parlor,"  said  Mrs.  Yin- 
ton,  deeply  affected,  "  waiting  your  forgive 
ness." 

"  What !  are  you  tricking  ?    I  see  it  now !" 

"  No,  no,"  said  Lucy,  seizing  him  with  both 
hands,  "  no,  no ;  solemnly,  truly,  it  is  as  we 
say." 

Leaving  the  table,  Mr.  Vinton  made  his  way 
to  the  parlor,  the  door  was  opened,  was  held 
thus  a  moment,  then  violently  closed,  and 


130  THE    LOST   AND   FOUND. 

presently  a  sound  like  hysterical  weeping 
came  to  the  breakfast  room.  Both  rushed 
to  the  parlor,  and  there  stood  the  old  gray- 
headed  man  with  his  manly  son  in  his  em 
brace,  answering  that  son's  petitions  for  par 
don,  by  "lifting  up  his  voice  and  weeping 
aloud." 

"He  is  asking  forgiveness  of  me,"  cried 
the  old  man,"  when  it  is  I  who  should  ask 
his." 

"ISTo,  no,"  interrupted  the  son;  "I  should 
have  submitted  with  a  better  grace  to  your 
authority." 

"Well,  well,"  interrupted  the  father;  "we 
will  not  quarrel  as  to  who  is  the  greatest  sin 
ner  ;  on  that  point  we  will  agree  to  disagree." 

And  then  there  came  a  second  edition  of 
the  last  night's  histories — a  rehearsal  of  all 
the  dangers,  adventures  and  fortunes  of  our 
hero,  which  we  will  not  repeat. 

And  now,  by  and  by,  in  carryalls,  ba 
rouches,  chaises,  and  light  wagons,  for 
though  it  was  Christmas,  there  was  no 
sleighing — the  company  was  brought  to  the 
door  of  the  Vintons.  Great  was  the  aston 
ishment  of  Emily's  husband,  and  the  indig 
nation  of  her  children  to  see  her  spring  into 
the  open  arms  of  a  tall,  moustached,  be- 


THE   LOST   AND   FOUND.  181 

whiskered,  foreign-looking  gentleman,  whom 
she  threatened  to  suffocate  with  kisses.  But 
the  astonishment  of  one,  and  the  indignation 
of  the  other  were  changed  into  the  most 
boisterous  joy,  as  she  released  herself  from 
his  vice-like  embrace,  and  presented  him  to 
her  husband  as  her  "  long-absent  brother 
Charles,"  and  "the  dear  good  uncle  whom 
the  children  had  never  seen."  And  then, 
when  uncles,  aunts,  cousins  and  friends 
poured  in,  not  knowing  the  arrival  of 
Charles,  how  the  Vintons  re-echoed  their 
"  wish  you  a  merry  Christmas,"  and  then 
laughed  and  wept,  and  wept  and  laughed,  to 
see  how  raptuously  Charles  was  welcomed. 
Evermore  the  tide  of  joy  swelled  higher  and 
higher  in  the  house,  till  it  seemed  as  if  the 
dwelling  could  not  hold  it.  The  old  people 
seemed  to  have  renewed  their  youth,  and  the 
young  people  were  almost  delirious  with  hap 
piness  ;  while  Charles  several  times  protested 
that  he  would  certainly  have  obtained  an 
insurance  on  his  life,  if  he  had  supposed  he 
was  going  to  fall  into  such  violent  hands. 

Evening  came ;  the  Christmas  tree  was 
lighted ;  and  after  the  young  folks  had  suffi 
ciently  admired  its  sparkling  branches,  laden 
with  gifts,  and  danced  around  it  till  they 


132  THE    LOST    AND    FOUND. 

were  weary,  its  bountiful  fruit  was  harvested 
by  them  to  the  complete  intoxication  of  their 
little  hearts.  There  was  but  one  cause  of 
complaint  among  them,  but  on  that  one  they 
were  unanimous.  "  Uncle  Charles,"  who  had 
become  a  prodigious  favorite  among  them, 
"  Uncle  Charles  had  no  present,  although  he 
had  been  gone  fifteen  years,  while  nearly  all 
the  rest  had ;  this  they  called  a  great  shame." 
"By  heavens  !"  said  old  Mr.  Vinton,  "'tis 
a  shame !  He  shall  not  be  cheated  out  of  a 
Christmas  gift,  though ;  for  if  you  can  get 
nothing  else,  you  shall  have  Lucy,"  putting 
the  trembling,  blushing  girl  into  his  arms ; 
"  take  her  and  keep  her,  and  she  '11  be  worth 
more  to  you  than  all  the  gold  and  silver 
you  've  brought  from  South  America.  There, 
my  boy,  you  can't  say  your  father  never 
made  you  a  present." 

Oh,  how  this  delighted  the  children  ! 
"Mayn't  we  give  three  cheers  for  Uncle 
Charles  and  Aunt  Lucy,  grandfather?"  asked 
one  of  the  boys.  "  Don't  you  call  this  a  mer 
ry  Christmas,  Uncle  Charles  ?"  said  another. 
"  Won't  you  have  a  Christmas  party  every 
year,  grandma  ?"  softly  inquired  a  little  girl. 

"  ISTo  cheering  yet,  boys !"  interposed  Mr. 
Vinton  ;  "  wait  a  moment.  I  want  to  invke 


THE    LOST   AND    FOUND.  133 

all  who  are  here  to-day,  to  be  present  a  week 
from  to-day,  at  New  Year's — not  a  word 
Charles — when  we  are  to  have  a  wedding. 
A  week  is  long  enough  for  your  prepara 
tions,  by  heavens  !  especially  when  you  have 
been  anticipating  the  "happy  day''  for  fifteen 
years — hey,  Lucy?"  But  Lucy  was  weep 
ing  on  Charles'  bosom.  "And  now,  boys, 
cheer  if  you  want  to.  Hurrah  !" 

Three  cheers  were  given  by  the  crazy  lit 
tle  fellows,  good  night  kisses  exchanged  all 
around,  and  then,  happy  in  the  day  they  had 
spent,  and  happy  in  anticipation  of  the  com 
ing  New  Year's  festival,  the  joyous  party 
broke  up,  unanimous  in  declaring  this  the 
"merriest  Christmas  they  had  ever  passed." 


TIE  MCE  WITH  THE  MILL  STREAM. 


Rain !  rain !  rain !  It  seemed  as  if  the 
very  "  windows  of  heaven  "  were  opened  for 
a  second  deluge ;  as  if  the  clouds  would 
never  cease  emptying  themselves  upon  the 
earth ;  as  if  the  light  of  sun,  moon  and  stars 
was  utterly  quenched  by  the  floods.  For 
two,  three,  four  days,  had  the  big  rain  come 
down,  peltingly,  pitilessly,  ceaselessly,  day 
and  night — at  times,  almost  like  a  water 
spout — until  the  accumulated  snows  of  win 
ter,  that  were  piled  high  in  the  forest,  and 
lay  deep  on  field  and  meadow,  were  wholly 
dissolved,  swelling  tiny  streams,  till  they 
burst  their  icy  fetters,  and  submerged  the 
lands  on  either  side  of  them,  gullying  the 
roads  by  the  rivulets  farmed  of  the  melting 
snows  and  the  fast-falling  rain,  and  deepen 
ing,  widening,  and  adding  volume  to  the 
mill-stream,  that  went  roaring,  rushing,  and 
foaming  through  the  valley,  like  a  cataract. 
Still  the  rain  poured  down  as  remorselessly 


THE    RACE    WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM.    135 

as  ever;  no  gleam  of  light  in  the  western 
horizon  gave  faint  promise  of  fair  weather ; 
not  the  least  break  in  the  clouds  was  visible  ; 
and  though  it  was  the  fourth  day  of  the 
storm,  one  would  have  judged,  from  appear 
ances,  it  had  but  just  commenced. 

Regardless  of  the  torrents  still  pouring 
down,  William  Preston  rose  from  the  break 
fast  table,  and  began  to  equip  himself  for  a 
ride  to  the  village,  two  miles  distant.  It 
was  Monday  morning,  and  William  always 
bade  adieu  to  his  little  family,  on  that  morn 
ing,  for  the  week,  as  he  found  employment 
in  the  upper  village,  which  could  not  be 
obtained  nearer.  But  his  gentle  wife  regard 
ed  his  preparations  with  a  troubled  eye,  and 
at  last  offered  a  remonstrance  to  his  depart 
ure  in  the  woful  storm  still  raging. 

"  Why  don't  you  wait  a  little,  William  ?  I 
am  sure  the  rain  will  slack  before  long;  it 
can't  pour  down  in  this  way  much  longer." 

"  That 's  what  you  have  been  saying,  these 
three  days,  Mary !  But  I  am  neither  sugar 
nor  salt ;  and  as  my  work  will  not  go  on 
while  I  am  here,  I  may  as  well  be  off,  rain  or 
shine." 

"  But  you  will  be  drenched  to  the  skin, 
William !" 


136    THE    RACE    WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  a  drenching  !  I  am 
used  to  it.  If  the  rain  does  n't  cease  before 
long,  however,  we  shall  be  drowned  out  here 
in  the  valley.  All  the  meadows  are  under 
water  now." 

"Are  you  afraid  of  a  freshet?" 

"Yes — no — or,  in  fact,  there  is  one  al 
ready.  Our  house  is  the  lowest  in  the  val 
ley,  and  the  only  one  in  danger  from  a  fresh 
et;  and,  Mary,"  he  continued,  turning  from 
the  window  to  his  wife,  buttoning  his  dread 
nought  coat  to  the  very  chin,  and  donning 
a  tarpaulin  of  the  dimensions  of  a  a  small 
umbrella,  "  if  you  see  the  water  rising,  and 
feel  any  fear,  you  had  better  take  the  chil 
dren,  and  go  higher  up,  to  some  of  the 
neighbors — to  your  sister's,  perhaps.  And 
now,  good  morning  ;  I  am  going  up  on 
horseback  this  morning,  and  shall  not  come 
in  again  after  I  have  saddled  Jack."  And, 
tenderly  kissing  his  wife,  he  stooped  to  press 
his  lips  to  the  brow  of  his  little  son,  still  sit 
ting  at  the  breakfast  table;  and  yet  lower, 
to  the  velvet  cheek  of  his  infant  daughter, 
slumbering  in  her  cradle,  when  he  turned 
and  left  the  house. 

But  after  he  had  saddled  his  horse,  and 
even  mounted  him,  an  uneasy  feeling,  that 


THE    RACE    WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM.     137 

he  could  not  define  or  account  for,  prompted 
him  to  ride  to  the  door,  to  repeat  the  advice 
he  had  given  his  wife  but  a  moment  before. 
"Mary,"  he  reiterated,  "if  it  rains  in  this 
way  much  longer,  there  will  certainly  be  a 
great  freshet;  the  stream  is  up  very  high 
now,  and  you  must  keep  a  sharp  look-out ; 
and  if  the  water  comes  up  even  to  the  foot 
of  the  garden,  don't  delay  a  moment  longer 
— leave  the  house  and  go  somewhere  else. 
So,  good  morning  again ;  I  may  be  home 
before  Saturday  night,  this  week."  And, 
turning  his  horse's  head  to'  the  village,  he 
drove  rapidly  thither,  and  was  soon  out  of 
sight. 

All  that  day,  and  during  most  of  the  night 
the  rain  continued  to  fall ;  and  William  Pres 
ton  thought  of  his  wife  and  children,  with 
inexpressible  anxiety.  Their  house  was  a 
frail  and  somewhat  dilapidated  structure, 
that  stood  down  low  in  the  valley,  on  the 
bank  of  the  mill-stream,  now  converted  into 
a  roaring  river ;  while  on  either  side  the  hills 
swelled  up  steeply,  dotted  here  and  there, 
and  at  last  crowned  with  dwellings.  The 
channel  of  the  stream,  at  this  particular 
point,  was  somewhat  narrow ;  and  as  the 
water  was  rapidly  rising,  and  would  .not 
10 


138    THE    EACE    WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM. 

subside,  but  rather  continue  to  rise,  for  two 
or  three  days,  the  apprehensions  of  the  anx- 
.  ious  husband  and  father,  that  his  family  were 
in  danger  from  the  unusual  freshet,  were  well 
founded. 

The  day  following,  he  became  acquainted 
with  another  fact,  that  revealed  to  him  the 
peril  of  their  situation  more  plainly. 

The  stream  that  ran  through  the  valley,  of 
which  we  have  before  spoken,  beside  which 
stood  their  dwelling,  furnished  the  motive 
power  to  factories,  saw  and  grist  mills  and 
machine-shops,  located  at  convenient  dis 
tances  along  its  course.  During  the  drought 
of  summer,  when  the  stream  became  low, 
the  supply  of  water  failed  ;  and  for  a  month 
or  six  weeks,  and  sometimes  longer,  these 
establishments  were  obliged  to  suspend  their 
operations  ;  <and  many  poor  people,  who 
could  ill  afford  to  be  idle,  were  thus  tempo 
rarily  deprived  of  employment.  To  obviate 
this  difficulty,  manufacturers,  millers  and 
machinists,  had  clubbed  together,  and,  at  an 
expense  of  some  thousands  of  dollars,  had 
built  a  reservoir  at  the  head  of  the  stream, 
throwing  a  dam  across  it,  and  erecting  em 
bankments  on  either  side ;  thus  reserving  the 
surplus  water  for  a  season  of  drought  and 


THE    KACE    WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM.    139 

need.  Ordinarily,  there  was  an  immense 
and  powerful  body  of  water  detained  here, 
which  extended  over  some  fifty  or  seventy- 
five  acres  of  surface ;  but  now,  when  over 
flowing  brooks,  streams  and  rivulets,  were 
pouring  in  their  tribute  to  the  reservoir,  al 
ready  swelled  to  a  lake  by  the  heavy  rains, 
it  presented  a  most  formidable  appearance, 
extending  far  and  wide,  dashing  and  rolling 
its  billows  like  a  sea,  committing  sad  depre 
dations  among  fences  and  stone  walls,  roads 
and  fields,  and  pouring  a  volume  of  water 
over  the  dam  whose  roar  could  be  heard  at 
a  great  distance,  and  causing  the  earth  to 
vibrate  with  the  shock,  in  its  immediate 
vicinity. 

The  reservoir  had  been  built  in  the  fall, 
and  was  not  completed  till  winter  had  set 
in ;  and,  not  expecting  the  strength  of  the 
dam  would  be  so  severely  tested,  an  old 
flume  had  been  put  in.  But  it  was  now 
feared  that  the  dam  and  embankments  would 
prove  inadequate  to  the  vast  pressure  of 
water  against  them;  and  a  large  concourse 
of  the  villagers  gathered  around,  watching 
the  roaring,  surging  tide,  and  indulging  the 
most  painful  apprehensions.  If  the  dam 
were  carried  away,  incalculable  damage 

10J 


140    THE    RACE    WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM. 

would  ensue  to  all  the  work-shops  and  man 
ufactories  on  the  stream  below;  while  all 
who  were  acquainted  with  the  peculiar  loca 
tion  of  William  Preston's  house  hesitated 
not  to  express  their  conviction  that  it  would 
be  swept  away  like  a  mere  toy.  But  the 
storm  had  ceased,  a  brisk  wind  was  blowing, 
the  probabilities  of  an  accident  were  no 
more  alarming  than  they  had  been  for  two 
days ;  and  as  night  closed  in  upon  the  gos- 
sipping  lookers-on,  they  one  by  one  retired 
to  their  homes  and  beds,  with  a  feeling  of 
perfect  security. 

No  so,  however,  William  Preston.  Though 
he  sought  his  pillow,  vainly  did  he  woo  the 
sweet  influences  of  sleep ;  he  was  restless 
and  nervous,  and  tormented  with  an  indefin 
able  dread  of  coming  evil,  that  imparted 
such  acuteness  to  his  senses  that  the  least 
sound  rang  upon  his  ears  like  the  blast  of  a 
trumpet,  starting  him  from  his  pillow,  and 
thrilling  him  with  a  vague  but  terrible  fear. 
Again  and  again  did  he  reproach  himself  for 
leaving  his  little  family  in  such  imminent 
peril,  and  resolve  at  the  very  earliest  dawn 
to  return  and  remove  them  to  a  place  of 
safety ;  and  then,  as  if  he  had  administered 
a  sedative  to  his  fears,  he  would  seek  to 


THE   BACE    WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM.     141 

compose  himself  to  sleep;  but  in  vain — -no 
slumber  could  be  coaxed  to  his  eyes.  Vexed 
and  wearied,  he  rose,  at  last,  and,  half  dress 
ing  himself,  began  to  pace  the  room,  occa 
sionally  pausing  to  listen  to  the  continuous 
roar  of  the  floods  pouring  over  the  dam; 
when,  lifting  the  curtain  for  an  instant,  to 
look  out  of  the  window,  he  saw — yes,  he 
was  not  mistaken — he  saw  the  water  lying 
in  the  front  yard,  up  to  the  very  door-stone  I 
There  could  be  no  delusion,  for  he  plainly 
saw  that  the  stars  overhead,  which  had  come 
out  thickly  and  brightly,  were  mirrored  from 
its  surface. 

In  an  instant,  he  had  flung  on  the  remain 
der  of  his  apparel,  and  rushed  down  stairs 
to  the  door,  where  he  could  view  the  dam ; 
when  he  perceived  that  the  fears  of  the  vil 
lagers  were  to  be  realized — a  portion  of  the 
embankment  was  already  carried  away,  and 
it  was  evident  that  the  whole,  with  the  dam, 
would  soon  yield  to  the  powerful  rush  and 
pressure  of  the  water.  It  was  but  the  work 
of  an  instant  for  him  to  arouse  the  inmates 
of  his  boarding-house,  and  of  the  dwellings 
adjacent ;  and  despatching  a  man  to  the  fac 
tory,  with  orders  to  ring  the  alarm-bell,  he 
dashed  into  the  stable,  saddled  his  horse  with 


142    THE    RACE    WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM. 

incredible  celerity,  mounted  him,  and  spur 
red  down  the  valley  by  the  river  course,  like 
one  mad. 

In  a  few  moments,  all  was  bustle,  hurry 
and  confusion,  in  the  village ;  every  dwelling 
in  dangerous  proximity  to  the  cause  of  all 
this  terror  was  deserted,  and  women,  chil 
dren,  and  valuables  were  conveyed  to  places 
of  safety ;  horsemen  were  despatched  round 
the  upper  road  to  warn  the  villagers  below 
of  the  approach  of  the  water,  and  one  or 
two  bold  men  leaped  into  the  saddle,  and 
followed  in  William  Preston's  steps  ;  for 
they  remembered  the  dangerous  location  of 
his  dwelling,  and  feared  lest  the  mill-stream 
would  reach  his  family  before  him. 

Cursing  his  tardiness  in  seeking  safety  for 
his  wife  and  little  ones,  and  groaning  aloud 
at  the  danger  that  menaced  them,  Preston 
cheered  on  his  good  steed  till  he  sped  over 
the  ground  as  if  wings  were  added  to  him. 
He  had  not  proceeded  one  fourth  of  the  way 
when  he  heard  an  increased  roar,  —  a  dash 
ing,  rushing  sound, —  and  screams  and  shouts 
that  rose  above  the  deafening  crash  of  the 
dam,  and  the  plunge  of  the  floods ;  and  he 
knew  that  the  dam  and  embankments  were 
carried  away,  and  that  an  avalanche  of  wa- 


THE    KACB    WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM.     143 

ter  was  hurled  down  into  the  stream  and 
upon  the  valley.  Glancing  down  into  the 
river,  beside  which  he  was  riding,  he  saw, 
by  the  faint  starlight,  that  its  current  had 
received  a  new  impetus,  that  its  volume  was 
sensibly  increased,  while  wreaths  of  white 
foam  were  dashing  down  its  surface. 

"God  of  heaven — help !  help!"  was  the 
ejaculation  that  burst  from  the  heart  and  lips 
of  the  agonized  man ;  and,  leaning  forward 
to  urge  his  horse  to  yet  greater  speed,  the 
big  drops  of  anguish  fell  from  his  brow  upon 
the  animal's  mane,  while  a  deadlier  faintness 
than  that  of  sickness  seized  his  heart.  Al 
most  lying  upon  the  neck  of  his  steed,  with 
the  reins  loose  and  flying,  he  spurred  him  on, 
and  encouraged  him  to  yet  greater  exertions; 
and  the  noble  beast,  as  though  comprehend 
ing  the  cause  of  his  master's  furious  haste, 
and  sympathizing  in  his  agony,  glanced  fur 
tively  down  upon  the  wild  waters  rushing 
past  him,  and  quickened  his  already  light 
ning-like  speed. 

Three  factories  lay  between  the  upper  vil 
lage  and  William  Preston's  house  ;  and 
scarcely  had  he  passed  the  first,  when  the 
tumbling  floods  were  down  upon  its  dam, 
sweeping  it  away  like  stubble,  and  timbers, 


144    THE    RACE    WITH    THE   MILL    STREAM. 

planks  and  wood  came  surging  along  on  the 
top  of  the  waves,  that  strode  mercilessly 
down  the  valley,  gloating,  over  the  destruc 
tion  they  wrought.  On  they  came,  like  an 
infuriated  populace,  leaping  and  tumbling, 
and  clapping  their  hands  in  demoniac  glee  — 
and  the  dam  of  the  second  factory  yielded 
to  their  fierce  assault.  On  they  rushed — 
the  victorious  waters — with  increased  force 
and  volume,  and  like  the  very  spirit  of  mis- 
cMe"f,  seemed  hurrying  to  destroy  the  poor 
dwelling  of  the  husband  and  father,  who 
was  running  this  fearful  race  with  the  waves, 
not  for  his  own  life,  but  for  the  lives  of  those 
dearer  to  him  than  his  own. 

On  he  flew,  in  the  darkness — on,  like  the 
wind !  Now  the  road  was  low  and  over 
flowed —  and  now  it  wound  up  higher,  and 
he  could  look  down  upon  the  dreadful  cur 
rent,  that  threatened  destruction  to  those  so 
dear  to  him.  At  last — oh,  what  an  eternity 
did  it  seem  to  him  since  he  started! — he 
came  within  sight  of  his  dwelling;  all  was 
still  and  quiet ;  its  inmates  evidently  were 
not  alarmed.  How  eagerly  William  Preston 
strained  his  eyes  in  that  direction  !  A  bright 
thought  darted  into  his  mind,  and  for  an 
instant  his  heart  grew  lighter.  "  Perhaps,- ' 


THE    KACE    WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM.    145 

he  said  to  himself,  "  Mary  was  alarmed,  and 
went  to  her  sister's  to  pass  the  night.  Oh, 
heaven,  I  thank  thee  !"  But  no — he  looked 
again  —  the  faint  light  of  the  night-lamp 
streamed  from  her  bedroom  window ;  she 
was  still  there,  in  danger,  and  unconscious ! 
As  the  frantic  man  saw  the  dim  lamplight, 
he  goaded  on  his  already  flying  beast  j  and, 
rising  in  his  saddle,  he  shouted,  like  one 
mad  :  "  Mary  !  Mary !  for  God's  sake,  wake  ! 
bestir  yourself !  you  're  lost !  you  ''re  lost ! 
YOU  'KB  LOST  !"  But  his  shouts  were  drown 
ed  by  the  din  of  the  waters  that  were  press 
ing  on  his  footsteps.  The  poor  man  looked 
back  over  his  shoulder,  and  saw  a  mountain 
of  white  waves  leaping  down  into  the  valley ; 
and,  like  a  pack  of  hungry  wolves,  they 
seemed  yawning  to  devour  the  dear  ones  he 
was  hastening  to  rescue.  The  dam  of  the 
last  factory  was  gone,  and  the  remorseless 
element,  with  accumulation  of  force  and  vol 
ume,  was  just  upon  the  little  cottage  and  its 
slumbering  inmates. 

But  William  Preston  was  also  within  a 
few  rods  of  his  house ;  his  horse,  white  with 
foam,  blood  spurting  from  his  nostrils,  was 
not  to  be  distanced  even  by  the  reinless, 
bridleless,  hungry  waves.  A  few  more  mad, 


146    THE    RACE   WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM. 

wild  plunges,  and  he  gained  the  front  gate ; 
a  word  from  his  master,  and  the  low  fence 
was  cleared,  and  they  stood,  the  horse  and 
his  rider,  at  the  door.  With  one  thrust  of 
his  foot,  one  heavy  throw  of  his  athletic  form 
against  the  door,  it  fell  in,  and  he  flew  to  his 
wife's  room.  A  few  words,  and,  more  than 
all,  his  wild,  frenzied  looks,  told  the  story, — 
"  Up,  Mary !  up,  for  the  love  of  heaven ! 
quick !  quick !  there's  no  time  to  lose ;  the 
dam  is  swept  by  the  board,  and  the  house  is 
going !"  Catching  the  boy  in  his  arms,  while 
the  mother  folded  the  babe  to  her  bosom, 
they  hurried  from  the  doomed  cottage,  into 
which  the  waves  were  beginning  to  enter;  — 
partly  leaping,  partly  lifted,  Mary  was  seated 
in  the  saddle,  and  seizing  the  horse  by  the 
bridle,  while  both  master  and  animal  rallied 
their  exhausted  strength  for  a  last  effort, 
they  climbed  up  the  steep  bank  to  the  first 
dwelling,  and  looked  back  to  see  the  white 
floods  pouring  in  at  the  doors  and  windows 
of  their  deserted  home. 

"Thank  God!  thank  God,  Mary,  you're 
safe  !  you  're  safe  !  Knock  at  the  door,  and 
arouse  the  folks;  for  it  is  all  dark  around 
me — I  cannot  see  my  way!"  and  the  voice 
of  the  overtaxed  man  died  away,  and  he 


THE    EACE    WITH    THE    MILL    STREAM.    14 

sank  upon  the  ground,  in  a  protracted  swoon. 

But  the  men  who  had  followed  him  from 
the  village  were  soon  with  him,  and  shelter 
and  every  comfort  was  bestowed  upon  his 
wife  and  children  that  their  circumstances 
demanded.  An  attempt  was  made  to  save 
some  of  the  household  stuff  from  the  watery 
element ;  but  the  waves  were  waging  so  vio 
lent  a  war  upon  the  dwelling,  that,  it  was 
abandoned  as  hazardous  and  impracticable. 
When  the  morning  dawned,  a  broad  river 
rolled  through  the  valley,  while  not  a  vestige 
t>f  William  Preston's  house  was  visible. 

"  I  have  run  races,  in  my  lifetime,  often," 
William  Preston  would  say,  when  conclud 
ing  the  story  we  have  related — "I  have  run 
races  on  foot,  when  a  boy,  with  my  play 
mates,  for  marbles,  a  hoop,  or  an  apple ;  and 
I  have  raced  on  horseback,  when  a  man,  for 
a  purse  of  money ;  but  the  toughest,  most 
exciting,  and  wildest  race  I  ever  ran  in  my 
life,  was  the  EACE  WITH  THE  MILL-STEEAM, 
for  my  wife  and  children." 


THE  MISSION  OF  SORROW. 


"Afflictions  are  frequently  blessings  in  dis 
guise."  How  many,  many  times,  when  a 
school-girl,  have  I  written  this  sentence  on 
the  page  of  my  blue  covered  copy-book,  vain 
ly  endeavoring  to  imitate  the  beautiful  chi- 
rography  of  the  copper-plate  "  slip,"  and 
sorely  puzzling  my  poor  brain,  all  the  while, 
to  comprehend  the  meaning  of  the  contra 
dictory  assertion.  Had  the  sentence  been 
"Bitter  is  sweet,"  or  "Light  is  darkness," /it 
would  have  been  quite  as  intelligible  to  me, 
and  equally  as  sensible — for  had  not  my 
eight  years'  experience  in  human  affairs  ac 
quainted  me  with  afflictions?  Had  I  not 
sometimes  lost  my  place  in  my  class,  seen  a 
favorite  kitten  die,  had  a  fit  of  the  tooth-ache, 
or  been  sent  to  bed  before  dark  as  a  punish 
ment?  If  these  were  not  afflictions,  what 
were  ?  And  had  I  not  sense  enough  to 
know  that  they  were  very  far  from  being 
blessings  ?  Certainly.  It  was,  therefore, 


THE    MISSION    OF    SOEKOW.  149 

speedily  settled  in  my  young  mind,  that  not 
only  the  above  aphorism,  but  another  very 
like  it,  which  we  find  in  the  Holy  Book, — 
"It  is  good  for  me  to  be  afflicted," — was 
wholly  devoid  of  common  sense. 

Ah,  how  vastly  different  from  this,  is  the 
lesson  time  has  taught  me !  How  emphati 
cally  true  have  I  since  found  the  utterance 
of  the  beautiful  Swedish  authoress  —  "Suffer 
ing  is  the  plough  which  turns  up  the  field  of 
the  soul,  into  whose  deep  furrows  the  All- 
wise  Husbandman  scatters  his  heavenly 
seed."  How  often  have  I  seen  the  heart  in 
toxicated  with  prosperity;  made  capricious 
by  kindness,  and  tainted  with  selfishness  by 
years  of  unalloyed  happiness,  regenerated 
through  the  discipline  of  sorrow !  How 
many  have  come  forth  from  the  fiery  ordeal 
of  intense  suffering;  purified  from  the  dross, 
that  before  mingled  largely  with  the  nobler 
elements  of  their  nature !  Yes,  the  mission 
of  sorrow  is  beneficent,  could  we  always  un 
derstand  it  aright ! 

When  I  was  some  seven  or  eight  years  of 
age,  I  was  transferred  from  one  of  the  "  Pri 
mary  schools "  of  good  old  Boston,  where, 
among  other  juveniles,  I  had  learned  to  read, 
spell,  and  repeat  the  multiplication  table,  to 


150  THE   MISSION    OF    SORROW. 

one  of  the  "  Grammar  schools  "  of  the  city, 
where  were  ten  hundred  or  more  pupils,  of 
ages  varying  from  six  to  sixteen.  I  well  re 
member  the  day  of  my  debut  at  the  

school.  The  vastness  of  the  school-room, 
which  to  my  ignorance  and  inexperience, 
seemed  almost  immeasurable,  the  varied  fig 
ures  and  faces  of  its  occupants,  the  multi 
plicity  of  their  employments,  the  decided, 
peremptory  tones  of  the  teachers,  the  mar 
shaling  of  classes  for  recitation,  and  the 
clock-like  regularity  that  characterized  all 
movements  and  operations — all  this  was 
very  imposing  to  my  youthful  imagination, 
and  filled  me  with  fear  and  gladness — glad 
ness,  that  my  little  stage  of  action  had  be 
come  enlarged,  and  fear,  lest  amid  this  mul 
titude  of  strangers,  I  should  fail  to  find  as 
loving  playmates,  as  had  been  mine  in  the 
junior  department  from  which  I  was  just 
emancipated.  But  all  other  impressions 
were  faint,  in  comparison  with  that  made 
upon  my  fancy,  by  a  singularly  beautiful  girl, 
about  fourteen  years  of  age.  On  that  first 
day,  as  often  as  my  eye  roved  over  the  sea 
of  faces  around  me,  it  finally  settled  with 
satisfaction  upon  that  one  beautiful  girl  — 
beautiful,  superlatively,  even  among  the 


THE    MISSION    OF    SORKOW.  151 

many  beaming  faces  of  childhood  and  dawn 
ing  womanhood  that  clustered  around  her. 
If  she  walked  from  her  seat,  my  eye  follow 
ed  her  graceful  figure,  as  one  might  gaze  on 
the  movements  of  a  vanishing  angel ;  and  if 
she  smiled,  I  felt  my  heart  dance  in  my  bo 
som  for  very  gladness.  School  was  dismiss 
ed,  and  then  I  saw  groups  of  her  classmates 
fluttering  around  her, — for  none  are  more 
ardent  admirers  of  the  beautiful  than  chil 
dren, —  and  I  soon  learned  by  the  words  of 
endearment  addressed  to  her,  that  she  inspir 
ed  not  only  admiration,  but  affection. 

Days  passed  away,  and  I  neglected  no 
opportunity  of  feasting  my  eyes  upon  the 
fascinations  of  the  beautiful  girl,  Augusta 
Lovell,  for  so  they  called  her.  Children  are 
quick- sighted  —  and  I  was  not  long  in  per 
ceiving  that  the  little  beauty  was  a  great 
favorite  with  the  teachers,  although  by  no 
means  as  prompt  at  the  recitations,  or  as 
observant  of  the  regulations  of  our  miniature 
community,  as  many  others.  Twenty  times 
a  day,  I  would  hear  her  name  pronounced  by 
the  sonorous  voice  of  the  teacher,  coupled 
with  the  injunction,  "  Study !"  and  scarcely 
a  day  passed  that  some  offence  was  not 
charged  against  her — and  yet,  though  not  a 


152  THE    MISSION    OF    SORROW. 

studious  pupil,  and  constantly  doing  wrong, 
her  misdemeanors,  and  non-recitations  were 
rarely  visited  by  the  penalties  inflicted  on 
other  offenders.  Everything  that  I  knew  of 
her  during  her  attendance  at  school,  would 
go  to  prove  Augusta  Lovell  indolent,  except 
at  play,  unstable,  and  thoughtless  in  all 
things — but  heaven  had  fashioned  her  most 
beautiful,  she  was  endowed  with  an  affection 
ate  nature,  was  irresistibly  witching  in  all 
her  moods,  fascinating  in  her  manners  —  and 
her  failings  were  almost  entirely  overlooked. 

If  she  hesitated  at  a  recitation,  a  dozen  of 
her  mates  were  ready  to  run  the  risk  of  pun 
ishment,  by  acting  as  her  prompters ;  and 
that,  too,  when  her  failure  would  elevate 
them  in  the  class ;  if  a  monitor  was  station 
ed  to  report  those,  who,  slyly  or  openly, 
dared  be  guilty  of  breaches  of  decorum, 
though  she  frolicked  till  her  merriment  at 
tracted  the  attention  of  the  Principal,  and 
,  threw  a  whole  class  into  disorder,  and 
though  she  ran  from  her  seat  every  other 
moment  without  the  necessary  permission  — 
the  partial  sentinel  had  neither  eyes  nor  ears 
for  her  venturesome  feats. 

Augusta's  life,  even  while  at  school,  was 
one  continued  gala-day.  Almost  daily,  dur- 


THE   MISSION   OF   SORED W.  153 

ing  the  season  of  festivities,  she  came  to 
school,  with  her  wealth  of  bright  hair  that 
could  hardly  be  kept  from  curling  at  any 
rate,  rolled  up  in  papers,  that  the  glittering 
ringlets  might  be  brighter  and  fresher  than 
usual  —  a  sure  indication  with  us,  in  those 
days,  that  the  head  thus  attired,  was  bound 
for  a  party  in  the  evening.  If  we  went  upon 
an  excursion  —  sleighing,  sailing  or  picnic- 
ing — innumerable  were  the  beaux  that  strove 
for  the  honor  of  serving  the  fair  Augusta, 
while  the  rest  of  us,  poor  things !  were  left 
to  look  out  for  ourselves. 
By  and  by,  after  I  had  been  a  year  at  the 

school,  Augusta  left  it;  and  for  a  few 

days,  the  school-room  seemed  dark  to  me,  as 
if  the  sunshine  were  shut  out  from  it.  I  was 
too  young  to  have  formed  an  acquaintance 
with  the  heroine  of  my  narrative,  even  had 
other  circumstances  favored  it — but  I  often 
thought  of  her,  and  wondered  if  she  were  as 
singularly  beautiful  and  fascinating  as  ever. 
I  was  therefore  right  glad,  when,  half  a  doz 
en  years  after,  she  was  thrown  once  more 
within  my  sphere  of  observation.  She  was 
then  in  the  full  bloom  of  beauty — a  being 
of  surpassing,  and  I  might  say  in  truth,  of 
dazzling  loveliness.  Her  life  was  gliding  on 
11 


154  THE   MISSION    OF    SORROW. 

like  a  dream  of  fairy-land,  no  sorrow  invaded 
it — no  dark  cloud  shadowed  it — no  trial  was 
known  to  her — and  it  seemed  that  she  was 
to  be  spoiled  for  a  lack  of  that  dreaded  ad 
versity,  which  chastens,  while  it  strengthens 
and  disciplines  the  character.     Idolized  by 
her  relatives,  living  in  the  midst  of  the  gaie 
ties  of  a  brilliant   city  circle,  receiving  the 
universal  admiration  meted  out  to  her,  the 
gay  cynosure  of  all  eyes,  the  reigning  queen 
of  "  belle-dom,"  it  is  not  strange  that  one  of 
her  indolent  and  thoughtless  nature  should 
have   become   volatile   and  vain,  and   quite 
unfitted  for  the  duties   and  realities  of  this 
stern   world.     Underlaying   the  vanity,   fri 
volity  and  thoughtlessness,  but  too  apparent 
to  the  most  superficial  observer  of  character, 
there  were  in  Augusta's  nature,  as  high  and 
noble  faculties  as  ever  swelled  the  heart  of 
woman ;  but  they  had  never  yet  been  called 
forth,   no    opportunity  had   ever    arisen   for 
their  exercise,  and  the  magic  power  was  yet 
to  be  developed,  which  should  wake  them 
into  active  life. 

The  twenty-first  birthday  of  Augusta  was 
an  important  day  to  her,  for  it  was  her  bridal 
day;  and  to  both  of  the  wedded  parties,  it 
came  freighted  with  happiness  and  bright 


THE   MISSION   OP    SOBKOW.  155 

promises.  The  world,  with  its  usual  free 
dom  of  comment,  pronounced  the  union  a 
"  strange  match,"  and  spake  of  the  wedded 
ones  as  an  "  ill-assorted  couple !"  though  it 
was  not  stranger,  or  more  ill-assorted,  than 
are  dozens  of  marriages  that  occur  about  us 
every  day.  Mr.  Loring  was,  perhaps,  ten 
years  older  than  his  bride,  and  possessed  a 
character  just  the  reverse  of  hers.  In  the 
same  proportion  as  she  was  volatile,  unsta 
ble,  thoughtless  and  inconsiderate,  he  was 
sedate,  serious,  reflecting  and  decided.  Once 
drawn  within  the  magic  circle  of  Augusta's 
influence,  he  could  but  accord  to  her  what 
every  one  else  yielded  —  admiration  and 
affection.  Despite  her  failings,  it  was  im 
possible  not  to  love  her ;  tor  her  nature  was 
so  deeply  affectionate,  and  her  manners  so 
winning,  that  the  severest  censor  would  soon 
forget  his  strictures  in  the  drawing  out  of 
his  heart  towards  her. 

Augusta's  marriage  threw  open  to  her  yet 
wider  the  halls  of  pleasure.  Her  husband 
was  wealthy,  and  every  means  of  enjoyment 
furnished  by  riches,  was  therefore  placed  in 
her  power ;  society  meted  out  to  her  its  hom 
age  with  a  more  prodigal  hand,  the  votaries 
of  fashion  led  her  through  the  gay  round  of 

llK 


156  THE   MISSION    OF    SOEROW. 

fashionable  pleasures,  and  initiated  her  into 
the  mysteries  of  fashionable  dissipation ;  and 
before  the  first  year  of  their  marriage  closed, 
Mr.  Loring  saw  with  pain,  that  his  wife  was 
living  only  for  pleasure,  and  that  domestic 
life  had  not  for  her  the  charms  it  had  for  him. 
The  birth  of  a  beautiful  boy  checked  for  a 
time  Augusta's  dissipated  career,  and  Mr. 
Loring  rejoiced  over  what  he  deemed  the 
awakening  of  his  wife's  better  and  nobler 
nature.  The  novelty  of  being  a  mother,  of 
holding  in  her  arms,  and  pressing  to  her 
heart  her  little  one,  wholly  occupied  her 
thoughts  for  a  season,  and  diverted  her  at 
tention  from  the  gay  scenes  in  which,  since 
her  marriage,  she  had  mingled.  But  the 
novelty  was  soon  gone,  and  though  the 
mother  really  loved  her  child,  yet  she  longed 
again  for  the  exhilaration  of  the  evening 
soiree,  the  assembly-room  and  theater,  and 
so  gave  her  babe  to  the  care  of  a  hireling 
nurse,  who,  she  would  fain  have  persuaded 
herself,  knew  better  how  to  manage  it  than 
herself.  Mr.  Loring  protested  gently  and 
kindly  against  this  unnatural  course,  but  his 
beautiful  wife,  unused  to  words  of  disappro 
bation,  lifted  to  his,  her  eyes  suffused  with 
tears,  and  he  asked  forgiveness.  Still  he  was 


THE   MISSION    OP    SORROW.  157 

dissatisfied  —  and  when  he  saw  that  the 
thoughtless,  giddy  mother  soon  became  a 
comparative  stranger  to  her  child,  he  resolv 
ed  to  atone  to  the  neglected  boy,  for  his  moth 
er's  lack  of  attention,  by  his  own  devotion. 

A  second  child  was  given  them,  a  little 
girl ;  but  though  Mrs.  Loring  seemed  pleased 
with  the  helpless  little  stranger,  its  birth 
made  less  impression  on  her  heart  and  mind, 
than  did  that  of  her  first-born,  and  a  few 
weeks  saw  her  again  in  the  brilliant  halls  of 
fashion.  Mr.  Loring  now  became  seriously 
alarmed  at  his  wife's  course,  at  her  neglect 
of  home  and  its  duties,  and  at  the  eagerness 
with  which  she  plunged  into  the  vortex  of 
fashionable  city  life ;  and  he  sought  to  draw 
her  from  the  giddy  whirl  of  fashion  through 
which  she  was  borne.  He  was  met  in  his 
efforts  by  tears  and  remonstrances ;  by  pal 
liations  of  her  conduct,  and  reference  to  the 
precedent  established  by  others,  who  had 
inducted  her  into  her  present  mode  of  life ; 
and  finding  tnat  her  heart  was  set  on  the 
gaieties  to  which  she  had  become  accus 
tomed,  and  having  no  inclination  for  domes 
tic  warfare,  he  forbore  farther  entreaty,  and 
trusted  to  time  and  circumstance  to  effect 
the  change  he  so  much  desired. 


158  THE    MISSION    OF    SOEKOW. 

Eight  years  sped  away — but  they  witness 
ed  no  change  for  the  better  in  the  life  of 
Mrs.  Loring.  Four  children  called  her 
mother ;  but  their  claims  on  her  time  and 
attention  were  not  allowed,  and  she  was  as 
little  confined  to  her  home  by  cares  and 
responsibilities,  as  little  debarred  from  the 
pleasures  of  gay  life,  as  in  the  freest  days 
of  her  maidenhood.  Her  husband  had  long 
ceased  expostulation  or  comment  on  her  fri 
volity,  and  had  left  her  free  and  unchecked 
to  gratify  her  peculiar  tastes  and  inclinations. 
He  had  wholly  withdrawn  from  the  gay 
world,  for  he  had  resolved  to  supply  to  his 
children  their  lack  of  a  mother's  care  and 
attention ;  and  every  moment  of  leisure  af 
forded  by  his  business  was  devoted  to  his 
little  ones.  While  his  wife  was  hurrying, 
evening  after  evening,  from  soiree  to  soiree, 
his  hours  were  spent  with  his  children,  to 
whom  his  affectionate  and  judicious  con 
verse,  his  sympathy  and  counsel,  and  his 
superintendence  of  their  education  were  of 
incalculable  benefit.  Of  his  wife,  he  saw  but 
little,  for  he  rarely  accompanied  her  to  the 
festivities  upon  which  she  lavished  time  and 
money  most  prodigally:  and  had  not  the 
giddy  wife  been  blinded  by  u  the  god  of  this 


THE   MISSION   OF    SOKKOW.  159 

world,"  she  would  have  noticed  the  paleness 
and  sorrow  that  at  last  became  habitual  to 
his  face,  at  this  divorce  of  their  employments 
and  interests.  But  she  never  lacked  for 
attendants,  gayer,  more  humorsoine,  and  less 
serious  than  her  husband;  and  she  soon 
ceased  to  deprecate,  even  in  words,  his  "lack 
of  gallantry,"  and  became  even  pleased  with 
the  exchange. 

Alas  for  poor  Augusta !  she  little  knew  the 
whispered  remarks  that  passed  from  one  to 
another,  as  each  evening  witnessed  her  pres 
ence  at  the  resorts  of  the  pleasure-seeking, 
unattended  by  him  who  should  have  been 
her  guide  and  companion !  She  little  knew 
the  calumnies  uttered  by  the  tongue  of  scan 
dal,  as  she  approached,  hanging  upon  the 
arm  of  one  or  another  of  those  "men  of 
fashion,"  whom,  a  few  years  before,  she 
would  have  shunned  as  she  would  a  viper ! 
Had  she  known  the  epithets  coupled  with 
her  name  by  those  who  beheld  her  nightly 
flirtations  with  men,  whose  hearts  were  fes 
tering  with  moral  corruption,  it  would  surely 
have  forced  her  into  the  right  and  safe  path. 
Poor  Augusta !  it  was  a  dark  time  for  her, 
though  she  knew  it  not.  But  a  step  was 
between  her  and  irretrievable  ruin;  but  a 


160  THE    MISSION    OP    SORROW. 

step  between  her  and  the  entire  forfeiture 
of  her  husband's  regard,  and  separation  from 
both  husband  and .  children.  Would  not 
any  instrumentality  be  merciful  that  avert 
ed  the  impending  ruin — that  awoke  her  to 
right  and  duty?  The  physician  amputates 
a  limb  that  he  may  save  the  patient — be 
probes  to  the  living  flesh  the  gangrenous 
wound  for  the  healing  of  the  system — and 
we  bless  him,  we  tender  to  him  our  thanks. 
Oh,  should  we  not  much  more  then,  bless  the 
great  Physician  of  souls,  who  chasteneth  for 
our  own  good,  and  buries  the  arrows  of  afflic 
tion  deep  in  the  quivering  heart,  for  the  sal 
vation  of  the  whole  moral  nature  ? 

The  clock  had  struck  two  of  the  morning, 
when  Augusta  Loring  alighted  from  her  car 
riage,  and  hurried  through  the  hall,  and  over 
the  stairs,  to  her  apartment.  Here  she  found 
her  husband  waiting  for  her — an  unusual 
occurrence,  for  his  hours  of  retiring  and  ris 
ing  varied  much  from  those  observed  by  his 
wife,  who  started  with  surprise,  at  seeing 
him. 

"Why,  William!  up  yet?" 

He  bowed  seriously,  and  Mrs.  Loring,  re 
garding  him  more  earnestly,  noticed  what 
others  had  long  perceived,  that  he  was  pale 


THE   MISSION    OF    SORROW.  161 

and  thin.  Alarmed,  she  sprang  forward,  and 
laying  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  looking 
into  his  face,  asked,  in  agitation, — 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?     Are  you  ill  ?" 

"IJo." 

"  Could  n't  you  sleep  ?" 

"  I  have  not  tried." 

"  What  has  l^ept  you  up  so  late,  pray  ?" 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,  and  did  not  know 
as  I  should  have  another  opportunity  than 
the  present." 

"  Heavens,  William !  what  do  you  mean  ? 
You  frighten  me  out  of  my  wits." 

"There  is  no  cause  of  alarm,  Augusta;  lay 
off  your  hat  and  shawl,  and'  come  and  sit 
here." 

Mrs.  Loring  did  as  her  husband  desired, 
and  having  dismissed  her  maid  to  her  bed, 
sat  down  beside  him,  pale  with  vague  fear, 
and  trembling  with  apprehension. 

Sorrowfully,  Mr.  Loring  turned  towards 
her.  "  I  have  unpleasant  news  for  you,  Au 
gusta-,  which  I  have  deferred  communicating 
until  the  last  moment." 

Mrs.  Loring  trembled  violently  from  head 
to  foot,  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  her  husband 
with  painful  earnestness.  There  was  some 
thing  in  his  calm,  sorrowful  face,  that  .re- 


162  THE    MISSION    OF    SORROW. 

proached  and  alarmed  her,  more  than  his 
words. 

"  My  business  requires  my  absence  from 
home,  for  awhile,  and  to-inofrow  I  sail  for 
New  Orleans." 

"William!" 

"  I  have  tried  to  make  some  other  arrange 
ment,  for  the  children  need  my  attention  very 
much — but  I  cannot.  I  do  not  know  what 
will  become  of  them  in  my  absence." 

This  indirect  but  deserved  reproach  went 
to  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Loring,  whose  feelings 
were  now  wrought  to  a  high  pitch  of  excite 
ment,  and  bursting  into  tears,  she  sobbed  on 
her  husband's  *  shoulder.  Affectionately,  as 
though  she  had  been  to  him  and  his  children 
all  that  a  wife  and  mother  should  be,  he  put 
his  arm  around  her,  and  soothed  her  with 
kind  words.  He  was  to  be  absent  for  a  year ; 
for  from  New  Orleans  he  was  to  proceed  to 
Liverpool  and  Paris,  and  he  unfolded  to  his 
wife  his  whole  plan.  "  And  now,  Augusta," 
he  added  in  conclusion,  "let  me  say  to  you, 
that  I  tremble,  when  I  think  of  our  children 
during  the  coming  year.  What  can  reason 
ably  be  expected  of  them,  if  they  are  given 
wholly  to  the  care  of  hired  women?  You 
have  found  pleasure  in  the  round  of  gaieties, 


THE    MISSION    OF    SORROW.  163 

to  which  we  have  been  invited ;  and  that  you 
might  enjoy  uninterruptedly  your  pleasures, 
I  have  endeavored  to  supply  your  place  to 
the  dear  children.  But  what  will  become  of 
them  while  I  am  away?  I  am  torn  with 
anxiety  about  them." 

"  William,"  said  the  weeping  wife,  raising 
her  head  from  her  husband's  shoulder,  and 
speaking  earnestly,  "  I  have  done  wrong ;  I 
have  done  wrong !  Why  did  you  leave  me 
so  wholly  to  myself?  How  can  you  forgive 
me,  when  I  have  been  so  neglectful  ?  How 
can  you  ever  again  love  me  ?"  And  burying 
her  face  again  on  his  shoulder,  she  wept 
afresh. 

"  Do  not  reproach  yourself,  Augusta,"  was 
the  reply.  "  I  have  always  known  you  were 
right  at  heart,  only  you  have  become  some 
what  bewildered  by  the  giddy  life  you  have 
led.  But  I  am  sure  you  will  care  for  the 
children  when  I  am  away,  and  will  attend  to 
them  as  I  have  ?" 

"  I  will !  I  will,  certainly,  William !" 

"You  will  find  it  a  delightful  task!  If 
sickness  comes  to  them,  while  I  am  away,  if 
death,  let  a  mother's  care  and  tenderness  be 
theirs  ;  if  I  feel  assured  of  this,  I  shall  part 
with  you  all  the  more  easily." 


164  THE    MISSION    OF    SORROW. 

Never  before  had  Mr.  Loring  seemed  so 
good  and  so  dear  to  his  wife,  as  now,  and 
never  had  she  seemed  to  herself  so  unpar- 
donably  culpable  in  her  neglect  of  him.  She 
accompanied  him  to  the  nursery,  where  slept 
her  babes,  and  there,  while  she  bedewed 
their  round,  rosy  faces  with  her  tears,  and 
wondered  how  she  could  have  held  herself 
so  aloof  from  them,  and  mourned  over  her 
cruel  indifference  to  them,  she  promised  in  lan 
guage,  and  with  a  manner  that  left  no  doubt 
of  her  sincerity  and  good  intentions,  to  cher 
ish  them  during  his  absence  most  tenderly. 

Mr.  Loring's  heart  overflowed — not  a  word 
of  censure  did  he  utter,  not  a  doubt  but  that 
her  promise  would  be  kept  in  good  faith,  but 
bestowing  upon  the  penitent  and  tearful  wife 
those  little  endearments  that  come  to  us  so 
gratefully  from  those  we  love,  he  sought  to 
strengthen  her  good  resolution  by  words  of 
cheer  and  encouragement.  And  when,  on 
the  next  day,  he  bade  "  good  by  "  to  the  sor 
rowing  little  group  composed  of  his  house 
hold,  it  was  with  a  heart  at  rest,  and  full  of 
love  for  them  all,  not  excepting  her,  whose 
every  fault  was  obliterated  from  his  memory 
by  her  tears,  repentance  and  promises  of  the 
few  hours  before. 


THE   MISSION   OF   SOEEOW.  165 

And  did  Augusta  Loring  remember  her 
penitence,  her  husband's  request,  and  her 
promise  ?  Yes,  for  a  time.  Weeks  after  his 
departure,  attention  was  given  so  closely  and 
untiringly  to  her  children,  that  their  father's 
absence  was  almost  unnoted  by  them.  Her 
first  morning  duty  was  connected  with  them, 
and  her  last  before  retiring,  was  to  kiss  them 
"good  night,"  as  they  lay  slumbering  on 
their  pillows.  For  their  sakes,  and  for  his, 
who  was  far  away,  she  renounced  tempora 
rily  the  gaieties  which  had  heretofore  so 
deeply  engrossed  her;  and  in  her  inmost 
heart  vowed  henceforth  to  be  as  domestic 
and  home-loving  as  her  husband  would  have 
her.  Fifty  times  a  day  she  congratulated 
herself  on  her  amendment,  and  thanked 
heaven  that  the  honied  speeches  and  flatter 
ing  attentions  of  her  butterfly  attendants, 
and  her  reception  of  them,  was  unknown  to 
her  husband,  who  had  now  become  inexpres 
sibly  dear  to  her.  With  rapture,  she  antici 
pated  the  hour  of  his  return,  when  he  would 
shower  upon  her  affectionate  commenda 
tions,  which  the  children  would  cause  to  be 
redoubled,  by  their  little  tales  of  their  moth 
er's  faithfulness  and  tenderness.  And  then 
her  face  would  crimson  with  pleasure,  the 


166  THE   MISSION   OF   SOEROW. 

tears  would  start  to  her  eyes,  and  she  would 
say,  "  Dear  William !  it  is,  as  he  said,  pleas- 
anter  to  do  right  than  wrong !" 

But  alas  for  poor  human  nature!  Mrs. 
Loring  was  not  yet  as  strong  as  she  imag 
ined,  nor  as  able  to  cope  with  temptation. 
An  invitation  to  a  grand  fancy  ball,  the  first 
of  the  season,  was  the  first  serious  tempta 
tion  thrown  in  her  way,  and  the  first  event 
which  at  all  inclined  her  to  deviate  from  her 
good  resolutions.  At  first  she  said,  "No, 
her  husband  was  absent,  the  care  of  her  chil 
dren  would  prevent,"  and  so  on,  but  one  and 
another  of  her  fashionable  friends  urged  her 
attendance,  declared  it  a  shame  for  one  so 
young  and  beautiful  to  mope  herself  to  death 
because  her  husband  was  from  home;  and  in 
short,  by  dint  of  flattery,  coaxing,  sarcasm 
and  persuasion,  her  scruples  were  overcome, 
and  she  consented  to  grace  the  festal  occa 
sion  with  her  presence.  "  It  is  only  for  this 
once,"  she  said,  and  so  she  intended ;  but  it 
proved  otherwise ;  and  this  ball,  which  was 
the  first  of  a  series,  was  the  first  step  to  a 
retrograde  movement  that  carried  poor  Au 
gusta  back  deeper  into  dissipation  than  ever. 
Again  were  her  children  neglected,  the  hours 
consumed  in  revelry,  dress,  fashion,  and  gay 


THE   MISSION   OF   SOEEOW.  167 

society,  and  to  elicit  admiration  was  again 
the  object  of  her  existence 

"  One  would  suppose  Mrs.  Loring  unmar 
ried,"  was  the  frequent  remark  of  those  who 
witnessed  her  wild  gaiety,  her  reckless  flirta 
tions,  and  her  apparent  forgetfulness  of  hus 
band  and  children  —  and  when  it  became 
known  that  one  of  her  admirers  was  a  con 
stant  hanger-on  at  her  house,  her  exclusive 
companion  in  her  rides  and  promenades,  at 
balls,  concerts,  soirees,  dinner-parties  and 
other  like  places,  that  his  admiration  was  un 
disguised,  his  affection  apparent,  out-spoken 
and  allowed,  many  said,  "  It  is  a  great  pity 
that  Mrs.  Loring  is  not  unmarried." 

Scandalous  reports  began  to  circulate  free 
ly,  the  wrong  of  which  Augusta  was  guilty, 
was  a  thousand  fold  magnified,  and  many  a 
mother  looked  aghast  at  her,  and  prayed 
heaven  their  daughters  might  never  sink  so 
low.  Some,  however,  more  friendly  and  less 
malicious,  believing  her  to  be  merely  impru 
dent  and  not  criminal,  which  was  the  truth, 
sought  an  interview  with  the  giddy  woman, 
detailed  to  her  the  gossiping  reports  in  circu 
lation  concerning  her,  and  begged  of  her  to 
act  with  more  circumspection.  This,  in  con 
junction  with  a  letter  received  at  the  same 


108  THE    MISSION    OF    SORROW. 

time  from  her  husband,  announcing  his  prob 
able  return  in  the  next  steamer,  produced 
some  effect,  and  again  the  unstable  Augusta 
was  sunk  in  the  depths  of  penitence,  writh 
ing  under  the  agonies  of  remorse  and  in 
wardly  promising  amendment. 

The  day  at  last  arrived  —  the  steamer  was 
telegraphed,  and  then  the  boom  of  the  sig 
nal  gun  announced  her  arrival.  Mrs.  Loring 
sprang  from  her  bed  as  these  long  looked-for 
signals  came  to  her  ear,  and  making  her  toil 
et  more  rapidly  than  ever  before,  she  hurried 
to  the  nursery  to  awake  the  little  ones. 

"  Papa  will  be  here  soon,"  she  said  to 
them,  "  and  you  must  be  up  and  dressed 
nicely  when  he  comes,"  —  and  the  happy, 
light-hearted  beings  bounded  from  their  pil 
lows,  and  soon  filled  the  house  with  their 
glee,  and  shouts  of  "  papa's  coming !  papa's 
coming !" 

No  heart  of  that  little  company  beat  more 
happily  than  the  mother's ;  for  though  con 
scious  of  having  failed  in  duty  to  her  chil 
dren,  of  having  neglected  her  promise,  and 
brought  dishonor  upon  herself  and  husband, 
and  in  the  estimation  of  many  of  her  friends, 
yet  she  had  resolved  to  confess  all  to  him  on 
his  return,  to  renew  again  her  promises,  and 


THE    MISSION    OP    SORROW.  169 

to  put  herself  completely  under  his  jjidicious 
guidance  —  and  she  knew  his  fond  heart  too 
well  to  doubt  the  result  would  be  in  her 
favor. 

But  though  her  heart  almost  leaped  from 
her  bosom  whenever  the  sound  of  carriage 
wheels  approached  the  house,  yet  the  hours 
of  the  early  morning  wore  away,  and  still  he 
came  not.  Impatience  began  to  consume 
her,  and  half  fearing  that  something  had  pre 
vented  his  return  at  the  intended  time,  she 
ordered  the  carriage,  and  directed  the  coach 
man  to  drive  rapidly  to  the wharf.  As 

the  coach  was  dashing  along  the  streets,  the 
eye  of  Mrs.  Loring  was  caught  by  Mr.  Bond, 
her  husband's  partner  in  business,  who  was 
walking  in  an  opposite  direction,  but  who, 
on  perceiving  her,  made  a  movement  towards 
the  carriage,  as  if  he  would  speak  with  her. 
She  instantly  pulled  the  check-string,  but 
Mr.  Bond  had  already  given  the  coachman  a 
signal  to  stop,  and  the  horses  were  speedily 
reined  up  to  the  sidewalk  where  that  gentle 
man  was  standing. 

"  You  were  going  to  the  steamer  to  meet 
Mr.  Loring,"  was  his  remark,  after  the  usual 
salutations  were  over,  "  were  you  not  ?" 

Mrs.  Loring  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and 

12 


170  THE   MISSION   OF   SORROW. 

eagerly  inquired  "if  her  husband  had  ar 
rived?" 

"He  is  confidently  expected,"  was  the 
evasive  answer,  "  and  by  a  letter,  I  learned 
had  spoken  his  passage  in  this  steamer ;  but 
my  dear  madam,  there  is  always  a  great 
crowd  collected  at  the  wharf — a  perfect 
mob  —  so  that  it  is  a  very  unpleasant  place 
to  meet  friends,  hardly  fitting  for  a  lady. 
Would  Mr.  Loring  desire  you  to  meet  him 
there  —  would  he  think  it  proper  ?" 

Mrs.  Loring  colored,  and  looked  confused. 
She  had  been  so  much  censured  of  late,  that 
she  had  lost  confidence  in  herself,  and  had 
grown  timid.  Before  she  could  frame  any 
reply,  Mr.  Bond  spoke  again :  "  Allow  me  to 
give  orders  to  your  coachman  to  drive  home 
igain ;  that  will  be  the  better  course,  and  I 
will  accompany  you  thither;"  and  without 
waiting  her  consent,  the  order  was  given, 
and  the  horses'  heads  were  turned  towards 
her  dwelling. 

Surprised  and  indignant  at  this  strange 
procedure,  Mrs.  Loring  was  silent ;  but  her 
thoughts  were  busy.  "Mr.  Bond  is  beside 
himself  to  offer  such  impertinence,"  was  her 
first  thought ;  but  then  she  remembered  his 
query,  "  is  it  proper  ?"  and  she  sank  back  in 


THE   MISSION   OF   SORROW.  171 

despondency.  "  I  can  never  do  any  thing 
right,  now- a-days ;  I  should  like  to  know  if  I 
am  indeed^  so  ignorant  and  regardless  of  the 
rules  of  propriety,  as  people  would  make  me 
believe !"  these  were  her  second  thoughts. 
Mr.  Bond  did  not  appear  to  notice  her  sur 
prise  or  displeasure,  but  chatted  away  on  in 
different  subjects,  in  a  manner  very  unusual 
with  him,  until  they  reached  the  house. 

As  the  coach  stopped,  and  the  steps  were 
let  down  to  alight,  the  door  opened,  and  her 
husband's  eldest  brother  came  forward  to 
hand  her  from  the  carriage.  His  appear 
ance  there,  at  that  hour,  seemed  as  strange 
to  Mrs.  Loring  as  Mr.  Bond's  interference ; 
but  she  kept  her  thoughts  to  herself,  and 
extending  her  hand,  said  jocosely,  "  William 
is  not  half  as  anxious  to  meet  us,  as  we  are 
to  meet  him,  or  he  would  have  been  here 
before  now."  An  indifferent  reply  was  giv 
en,  but  with  a  seriousness  of  demeanor,  a 
sadness,  it  might  have  been,  that  ill  accorded 
with  the  light  words,  and  Mrs.  Loring's 
heart  began  to  quake  with  fear.  She  looked 
scrutinizingly  at  both  gentlemen  for  a  mo 
ment,  but  she  could  not  read  their  faces; 
there  was  a  mystery,  a  sadness  veiling  them, 
that  she  dared  not  explain,  even  to  herself. 


172  THE    MISSION    OF    SORROW. 

A  terrible  fear  came  over  her,  her  limbs 
trembled,  and  her  brother's  assistance  was 
needed,  to  enable  her  to  reach  the  parlor. 
Here,  her  mother  met  her,  who  was  not  wont 
to  leave  home  at  this  unusual  hour  of  the 
morning,  and  Augusta  sank  down  upon  the 
sofa,  the  blood  in  her  veins  seeming  to  cur 
dle  with  her  increasing  terror.  Mrs.  Lovell 
came  towards  her,  and  began  to  untie  her 
hat,  and  lay  off  her  shawl,  and  Mr.  Bond 
brought  a  glass  of  water,  and  held  it  to  her 
colorless  lips ;  the  tears  of  one  trickled  fast 
upon  her  face,  and  the  hand  of  the  other 
trembled  as  it  supported  her  —  but  no  one 
spoke. 

Mrs.  Loring  understood  the  tears,  the 
agitation,  and  the  silence — she  knew  all ! 
Words  were  not  needed  to  inform  her  that 
the  meeting  with  her  husband  would  be  in 
heaven,  and  not  on  earth ! 

But  Mr.  Loring,  the  brother,  at  last  broke 
the  painful  silence.  "Augusta,"  he  asked, 
"  when  did  you  hear  from  William  ?" 

The  date  of  the  letter  was  given,  and  her 
brother  again  inquired,  "Did  he  say  any 
thing  of  his  health  ?" 

"  He  said  he  had  been  somewhat  ill,"  re 
plied  Mrs.  Loring  faintly,  "but  was  then 
better." 


THE   MISSION   OP   SORROW.  173 

"  He  had  been  more  ill  than  he  wrote  you, 
for  his  life  was  for  some  time  in  jeopardy 
from  typhus  fever — " 

"  And  he  is  now  sick  in  Liverpool,"  inter 
rupted  Mrs.  Loring,  as  if  she  wished  to  defer 
the  utterance  of  the  words  she  dreaded  to 
hear. 

"No,  he  is  not  in  Liverpool:  he  embarked 
in  this  -steamer,  but  immediately  from  over- 
exertion,  a  relapse  of  the  fever  came  on ;  he 
was  ill  all  the  passage,  and  —  and  — " 

Mr.  Loring's  voice  grew  husky,  and  trem 
ulous.  Mr.  Bond  rose  to  pace  the  floor,  to 
hide  his  agitation,  and  Mrs.  Lovell  wept 
aloud. 

Augusta  looked  steadily  in  her  brother's 
face,  waiting  the  completion  of  the  sentence, 
but  it  came  not ;  and  sinking  back,  and  pass 
ing  her  tremulous  hand  over  her  pale  brow, 
she  almost  whispered,  yet  was  distinctly 
heard,  "and  —  is  —  now  —  dead!" 

Mrs.  Lovell  enfolded  her  stricken  child  in 
her  arms,  and  Mr.  Loring  sitting  down  be 
side  her,  took  her  passive  hand  tenderly  in 
his,  but  neither  of  them  could  utter  a  word. 
There  are  moments  when  even  the  voice  of 
kindness  and  sympathy  will  torture  the  heart, 
when  to  sit  down  and  weep  with  the  afflicted 


174  THE    MISSION    OF    SORROW. 

will  be  more  soothing  than  to  pour  forth  the 
language  of  commiseration  —  this  was  such 
a  time.  Poor  Augusta  was  stunned  by  the 
suddenness  of  the  blow,  which  had  stricken 
her  husband  into  the  grave ;  she  gave  way 
to  no  violent  out-burst  of  grief,  to  no  wild 
lamentations,  not  even  did  she  weep ;  but  the 
fixedness  of  her  countenance,  and  its  vacuity 
of  expression,  manifested  how  little  she  could 
realize  the  tidings  just  broken  to  her.  Not 
until  informed  that  her  husband's  body  was 
brought  home  by  the  steamer  —  for  he  had 
died  but  the  day  before  —  and  that  it  was  to 
be  brought  to  his  house  for  burial,  did  Mrs. 
Loring  manifest  any  consciousness ;  and  then 
she  remarked,  "  I  am  glad  of  that,  for  I  shall 
see  him  once  more." 

But  when  his  coffined  corse  was  brought 
before  her,  when  she  gazed  on  those  cold, 
but  well-known  features,  and  listened  to  the 
wailings  of  her  fatherless  babes,  then  she  felt 
the  full  force  of  her  affliction,  and  the  foun 
tains  of  her  grief  were  unsealed.  Then  her 
tears  rained  upon  his  pale  face  as  though 
her  "  eyes  were "  indeed  "  a  fountain  of 
tears." 

Weak  as  an  infant,  and  almost  as  passive, 
only  now  and  then  asking  a  question  in  so 


THE   MISSION   OF   SOEROW.  1*75 

sorrowful  tone  of  voice  that  it  made  one 
weep  to  hear  it,  she  was  prepared  for  the 
funeral  obsequies.  The  usual  consolations 
of  religion  were  tendered  her,  but  the  hope 
less  look  of  woe  that  sat  on  her  face,  the 
slight  moan  that  now  and  then  was  wrung 
from  her,  and  the  intense  eagerness  with 
which  her  eyes  followed  the  coffin,  told 
plainly  that  the  anguish  of  her  spirit  was  not 
soothed.  Some  wondered  at  her .  grief;  for 
they  could  not  understand  her  sorrow,  when 
they  remembered  her  late  levity ;  and  others 
who  sympathized,  yet  felt  consoled  by  the 
thought  that  her  grief  could  not  last  long,  so 
volatile  was  her  nature  —  but  who  of  us  can 
understand  the  heart  of  another  ?  Who  can 
pierce  its  recesses,  and  divine  the  depth  of 
its  love  or  its  sorrow? 

The  last  sad  rites  were  over,  and  no  de 
mand  being  made  on  Augusta  for  farther 
effort,  she  sunk  under  the  burden  of  her 
grief.  It  soon  became  necessary  to  summon 
a  physician,  who  prescribed  tonics  for  her 
debility,  anodynes  for  her  nervous  excite 
ment,  and  stimulants  for  her  failing  system 
—  but  they  were  unavailing,  for  they  could 
not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased,  they  could 
not  heal  a  wounded  heart.  Weeks  passed 


176  THE    MISSION    OF    SORROW. 

away,  and  still  they  found  her  confined  to 
her  bed,  weak,  nerveless,  hopeless,  and  ema 
ciated. 

"  She  must  be  roused  from  this  apathetic 
state,"  said  the  physician,  "  or  she  will  die ;" 
but  how  was  this  to  be  done  ?  Friends  call 
ed  to  condole  with  her,  but  she  shook  her 
head  when  begged  to  admit  them,  and  said, 
"They  are  kind  to  call,  but  I  cannot  see 
them  !"  Her  children  were  sent  to  her  bed 
side,  but  she  heeded  not  their  caresses,  nor 
their  tears,  and  only  motioned  them  away. 
Relatives  remonstrated  with  her,  and  prayed 
her,  if  she  would  save  her  life,  to  shake  off 
the  sadness  which  every  day  was  chaining 
her  more  securely  to  her  couch  —  but  she 
only  replied  sorrowfully,  "  let  me  die !  I 
don't  want  to  live !"  Ministers  of  religion 
spake  consolingly  to  her,  and  depicting  the 
happiness  of  him  whom  she  mourned,  begged 
her  to  be  comforted  —  but  she  replied  only 
by  pressing  her  hands  over  her  eyes,'  while 
the  tears  trickled  down  between  her  thin 
fingers.  Every  effort  was  made  to  break  the 
torpor  of  grief  in  which  she  was  steeled  — 
but  unsuccessfully. 

Remorse  was  busy  at  her  heart,  for  her 
neglect  of  him  who  had  ever  been  to  her  all 


THE    MISSION    OP    SORROW.  177 

kindness,  was  as  vivid  as  an  affair  of  yester 
day.  His  gentle  chidings,  his  affectionate 
remonstrances,  their  last  sad  interview,  her 
unkindness  to  the  dead,  her  broken  promises, 
her  wounding  of  his  feelings,  her  neglect  of 
his  happiness,  her  devotion  to  others  —  these 
were  her  memories  of  the  Past  —  and  the 
Past  was  irretrievable  !  Oh,  memory !  what 
an  abyss  of  misery  art  thou !  With  thee,  the 
Past  is  all,  there  is  no  Present,  no  Future ! 
~No  wonder  that  hopeless  despair  was  wast 
ing  her  away  !  No  one  divined  the  current 
of  her  thoughts ;  no  one  poured  balm  into  the 
deepest  wound  of  her  heart,  no  one  offered 
consolation  that  reached  her  case ! 

Among  the  papers  of  Mr.  Loring  was  an 
unfinished  letter  to  his  wife,  dated  soon  after 
his  recovery  from  the  fever,  containing  the 
particulars  of  his  illness,  which,  owing  to  a 
press  of  business,  or  the  fear  that  she  would 
be  alarmed,  was  not  completed.  His  minia 
ture  was  also  among  \Jns  effects,  superbly 
encased,  taken  by  a  celebrated  artist  of 
Paris,  and  evidently  intended  as  a  present  to 
his  wife;  but  these  had  been  kept  from  her, 
thus  far,  from  fear  of  the  effect  they  might 
produce.  But  as  every  means  to  arouse  her 
to  life  had  failed,  the  physician  advised  that 


178  THE   MISSION   OF   SOKBOW. 

these  should  be  given  into  her  hand ;  and 
accordingly  they  were  placed  upon  her 
dressing-table,  so  that  she  could  not  fail  to 
see  them,  whether  raised  in  bed,  or  sitting  in 
the  arm-chair.  As  was  expected,  the  next 
time  she  was  lifted  into  the  easy-chair,  her 
eye  fell  on  the  miniature,  and  then  on  the 
hand-writing  of  her  husband ;  and  weak  as 
she  was,  she  sprang  forward,  and  eagerly, 
and  with  a  slight  cry  of  joy,  grasped  them. 

It  was  indeed  affecting  to  see  how  the 
fountains  of  feeling  were  stirred  to  their 
depths  by  the  likeness  of  her  husband. 
Again  and  again  she  pressed  it  to  her  lips 
and  heart,  large  tears  rolled  over  her  wan 
cheeks,  and  words  of  endearment  came  from 
her  colorless  lips.  But  when  she  read  the 
lines  his  hand  had  traced  to  her,  expressive 
of  his  undying  affection,  of  the  consolation 
imparted  to  him,  when  he  thought  his  hour 
of  death'  was  nigh,  by  the  memory  of  the 
promises  she  had  made  to  be  faithful  to  their 
children  —  promises,  he  doubted  not  that 
would  be  kept;  —  when  she  read  how  much 
happiness  he  hoped  to  find  in  the  bosom  of 
his  family  on  his  return,  how  eager  he  was  to 
see  her,  and  enjoy  her  society,  as  he  had  not 
since  their  marriage  —  when  she  read  this,  it 


THE   MISSION    OF    SORROW.  179 

seemed  as  if  the  spell  that  had  so  long  bound 
her,  was  broken. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  addressing  Mrs.  Lov- 
ell,  "  I  will  be  worthy  my  husband's  name 
and  memory — I  will  be  to  his  children,  what 
he  would  have  desired,  had  he  spoken  with 
me  when  dying.  I  will  no  longer  desire  to 
die,  but  for  their  sakes,  and  for  his  who  so 
loved  them,  I  will  strive  to  live  and  dis 
charge  my  duty.  While  my  husband  lived, 
I  failed  in  my  duties  to  my  family — now  that 
he  is  dead,  I  will  atone  by  my  devotion." 

When  the  children  came  again  to  her 
room,  they  were  received  with  a  welcome 
and  a  tenderness  that  made  them  wild  with 
joy  —  and  when  friends  came  to  offer  conso 
lation,  they  were  admitted  to  her  presence. 
The  greatest  obstacle  in  the  way  of  her  re 
storation  to  health  was  now  removed,  and 
the  skill  of  her  physician  was  exerted  more 
effectually  than  before.  Gradually  strength 
came  to  her  system,  and  she  was  again  able 
to  mingle  in  the  active  scenes  of  life.  But  it 
was  soon  apparent  that  a  change  had  passed 
over  her  —  a  change,  at  which  the  angel  in 
heaven,  from  whom  she  had  been  separated, 
must  have  rejoiced,  if  permitted  to  know 
aught  of  earthly  things.  Sorrow  had  ful- 


180  THE    MISSION    OP    SORROW. 

filled  its  mission  for  her  —  it  had  accom 
plished  its  most  beneficent  work ;  and  had 
purified  and  ennobled  by  its  discipline,  the 
nature,  which  before,  possessed  much  that 
was  unlovely. 

Not  now  does  the  youthful  matron  seek 
her  enjoyment  in  the  glittering,  but  hollow 
world  of  fashion  —  not  now  does  she  court 
admiration,  and  honied  words  of  flattery  — 
not  now  is  she  reckoned  as  a  star  in  the 
galaxy  of  fashionable  beauty.  But  in  the 
nursery,  or  sitting-room,  with  her  children 
around  her,  under  whose  tutelage  they  are 
daily  becoming  wiser  and  better  —  striving 
to  develope  aright  their  moral  natures,  to  im 
part  to  them  instruction,  or  afford  them 
amusement  —  in  the  sanctuary,  where  the 
heavenly  lessons  given,  are,  by  her,  grate 
fully  received  —  in  the  dwellings  of  the  poor, 
where  the  tongue  of  honest  poverty  blesses 
her,  and  the  eye,  hollow  from  disease  smiles 
thankfully  upon  her  —  in  the  house  of  afflic 
tion,  where  is  felt  the  value  of  her  sympathy 
—  there  may  she  now  be  found,  with  her 
whole  heart  in  these  duties,  happier  than  for 
merly,  when  she  bowed  at  the  shrine  of  plea 
sure  and  of  fashion. 

And  though  she  has  her   hours  of  utter 


THE   MISSION   OF   SORROW.  181 

abandonment,  when  the  weary  spirit  longs 
for  release,  when  with  one  of  old,  she  ex 
claims,  "  'Twere  better  for  me  to  die,  and 
not  live,"  yet  these  clouds  pass  away  from 
her  horizon,  leaving  it  brighter  and  clearer 
than  before.  And  her  lone  journey  of  life  is 
cheered  by  the  thought,  that  were  he  living, 
whom,  when  living,  she  valued  too  lightly, 
her  course  of  life  would  please  him,  and  the 
path  which  she  has  marked  out,  would  also 
be  his  —  and  that,  though  departed,  he  is 
with  her  when  she  knows  it  not,  gazing  upon 
her.  face  though  she  may  not  see  him,  and  fol 
lowing  her  in  her  routine  of  duties  with  a  sat 
isfaction  that  he  cannot  now  express  to  her. 

Ah,  there  is  meaning  in  the  aphorism, 
"  Afflictions  are  frequently  blessings  in  dis 
guise  !" 


THE  LAST  JEWEL. 


I  have  rifled  my  casket  of  jewels  most  rare, 

I  have  plucked  out  the  brilliants  that  flashed  in  my 

hair ;  — 

I  am  girded  no  more  with  a  cincture  of  light, 
That  blazed  as  if  studded  with  stars  of  the  night. 

I  have  put  on  the  sackcloth,  in  woe  for  my  dead  f 
And  my  jewels  —  alas  1  I  have  bartered  for  bread! 
From  the  depth  of  the  casket  each  gem  hath  been 

reft 
By  the  mandate  of  hunger !    One  only  is  left ! 

One  only  —  the  jewel  with  which  I  was  wed 
To  thee,  who  art  slumbering  now  with  the  dead ! 
One  only  —  the  jewel  thou  gavest  in  pride, 
When  I  knelt  at  the  altar,  thy  happy  young  bride ! 

'Tis  the  last  link  that  holds  me  to  days  that  are 

passed, 

That  were  freighted  too  fully  with  gladness  to  last ; 
'Tis  a  relic  of  years  when   the  months  were  all 

May- 
When  sunshine  and   pleasure  made  blissful  each 

day! 


THE    LAST    JEWEL.  183 

'Twas  a  balm-breathing  morn,  in  the  earliest  spring, 
When  he  placed  on  my  finger  this  pearl-studded 

ring; 

In  what  accents  of  sweetness  he  named  me  his  wife, 
Whose  being  with  his  was  now  blended  for  life ! 

I  saw  not  the  cloud  that  stretched  far  up  the  sky ; 
I  deemed  not  the  angel  of  death  was  so  nigh ; 
Four  bright  summers  faded,  and  I  was  bereft ! 
The  dear  one  who  loved  me  was  taken  —  I,  left ! 

Through  sorrow  and  sickness,  through  hunger  and 

cold, 

I  ever  have  clung  to  this  circlet  of  gold ! 
I  cannot  —  I  cannot  pawn  this  like  the  rest  — 
For  his  love  bestowed  it  who  dwells  with  the  blest ! 

But  ah !  heavy  the  pressure  of  poverty's  hand, 
And  fiercer  and  louder  is  hunger's  demand ! 
My  sireless  children  —  O  God !  how  they  weep, 
And  murmur  for  bread,  in  their  innocent  sleep ! 

The  birds  of  the  forest  have  food  and  to  spare ;  — 
But  ye,  poor  little  nestlings,  how  scanty  ye  fare ! 
God  heareth  the  ravens  wken  hungry  they  cry  — 
Doth  the  wail  of  my  children  not  pierce  to  the  sky? 

• 

Nay,  dear  little  birdling  !  start  not  from  thy  sleep ! 
Why  wak'st  thou  from  slumber,  and  only  to  weep  ? 
Bread  —  bread  —  art  thou  asking  ?  —  The  struggle  is 

past ! 
I  will  pawn  the  last  jewel— 'tis  the  last !  — 'tis  the 

last! 


184  THE    LAST   JEWEL. 

I  will  go  to  the  Shy  lock  who  traffics  in  gems, 
Who  would  dole  but  a  pittance  for  king's  diadems  ! 
Once  more  will  I  seek  for  the  food  that  ye  crave  — 
And  then  —  and  then  —  dear  ones !  —  we  haw  but  the 
grave ! 


THE  FIRST  QUARREL. 


"  And  so  you  think  I  shall  not  be  so  very 
happy,  after  all,  mother,  do  you?"  asked 
Anna  Hastings,  as  she  sat  at  her  toilet,  where 
she  had  been  twining  her  fingers  abstractedly 
through  her  long,  rich  hair,  for  the  last  few 
moments,  at  the  same  time  sighing  heavily, 
as  though  a  burden  lay  upon  her  heart. 

"  I  did  not  say  that,  dear,  did  I  ?"  replied 
Mrs.  Hastings,  tenderly,  drawing  the  silky 
tresses  from  the  hand  of  her  fair  daughter, 
and  beginning  herself  to  plait  them  most 
tastefully.  "  I  was  merely  trying  to  per 
suade  you  to  build  your  air-castles  a  little 
less  in  the  clouds,  and  rather  more  on  terra 
firma.  I  am  sure  you  will  be  happy,  my 
dear  child,  if  you  seek  happiness  aright." 

"But  what  do  you  mean,  mother?  You 
have  often  spoken  as  though  you  feared  I 
might  not  be  as  happy  as  I  expect  to  be.  Is 
not  Henry  Hamilton  good  and  affectionate, 
and  will  he  not  prove  a  good  husband  ?" 

13M 


186  THE   FIRST    QUARREL. 

"  Yes,  under  some  circumstances  he  will 
be.  But  I  fear  he  may  meet  with  trials  as 
your  husband,  that  he  has  not  experienced 
as  your  lover." 

"What,  dear  mother?" 

"  Well,  to  come  directly  to  the  point,  how 
do  you  think  he  will  bear  those  sudden  gusts 
of  passion,  those  violent  fits  of  anger,  with 
which  you  please  occasionally  to  entertain 
us?" 

"Oh,  la!  mother!  what  a  question!  Why, 
I  shall  never  get  angry  with  Henry.  I  am 
sure  we  shall  never  have  a  jar,  or  a  hard 
word." 

"  If  I  could  believe  so,  I  should  feel  quite 
at  ease  in  relation  to  your  future  happiness." 

"  Is  this  all  you  have  meant,  while  you 
have  been  talking  to  me  so  solemnly  about 
the  uncertainty  of  earthly  happiness,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing?  Oh,  fie,  dear  mother!" 
and  Anna  threw  back  her  head,  and  looking 
up  to  her  mother's  face  roguishly,  tapped  her 
familiarly  on  the  cheek. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  girl,  let  me  beg  you  to  heed 
more  seriously  what  I  have  said.  Kindly, 
but  candidly,  Anna,  I  sometimes  fear  lest 
your  passionate  temper  may  yet  wreck  your 
happiness." 


THE    FIRST    QUARREL.  187 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  dear  mother !  don't  say  that ! 
When  I  am  Henry  Hamilton's  wife,  you  will 
see  how  good  and  equable,  and  meek  and 
sweet-tempered  I  shall  become.  Why,  I 
have  resolved  to  be  a  pattern  wife." 

"  I  hope  you  may,  but  fear  still  that  the 
fiery  spirit  that  sometimes  leads  you  to  wound 
deeply  the  friends  you  love,  now,  will  reveal 
itself  even  after  your  marriage." 

"  Never,  mother,  never !  I  have  resolved 
against  ever  getting  so  very  angry,  as  you 
have  sometimes  seen  me.  But  I  do  not  get 
angry  very  often,  do  I  ?" 

"  The  habit  grows  on  you ;  and  let  me  tell 
you,  dearest,  that  your  occasional  fits  of 
anger,  and  seasons  of  irritability,  will,  if 
indulged,  soon  become  every-day  occur 
rences —  and  they  will  completely  destroy 
all  the  good  influence,  you  may  exert  over 
your  husband  in  your  pleasant  moods. 
Meekness  and  forbearance  you  must  learn  to 
practise,  for  they  are  called  into  daily  exer 
cise  in  married  life.  This  is  my  last  conver 
sation  of  the  kind  with  you,  as  you  leave 
home  to-night,  and  so  bear  with  your  mother, 
as  she  begs  you  to  curb  your  spirit,  and  to 
keep  in  constant  subjection  your  temper. 
Henry  Hamilton  will  not  brook  many  angry 

13 


188  THE   FIRST   QUARREL. 

words,  even  from  the  wife  of  his-  bosom,  and 
your  very  first  quarrel  may  prove  disastrous 
to  you  both." 

For  a  moment,  Anna  looked  serious,  and 
thoughtful ;  but  she  was  strong  in  self-confi 
dence,  and  sanguine  in  her  anticipations  of 
the  future,  and  instantly  recovering  her  gaie 
ty,  she  replied,  "  I  shall  never  quarrel  with 
him,  I  know  I  never  shall !  and  I  shall  prove 
you  a  false  prophet,  my  own  mother,  by 
being  one  of  the  best  and  happiest  of  wives." 

Rapidly  moved  the  fingers  of  Mrs.  Hast 
ings  through  the  luxuriant  hair  of  her  child, 
and  soon  the  glossy  chestnut  tresses  were 
arranged  for  the  young  girl's  bridal,  the  rest 
of  the  toilet  was  made,  and  taking  the  prof 
fered  arm  of  her  betrothed,  she  descended  to 
the  parlor,  where  a  large  company  was  wait 
ing,  and  in  a  few  moments  the  words  were 
pronounced  that  made  her  the  wife  of  him  to 
whom  she  had  given  her  heart.  But  little 
time  was  afforded  for  merriment  or  congratu 
lations,  for  the  home  of  the  wedded  couple 
was  some  twenty  miles  distant,  and  as  soon 
as  possible  they  bade  adieu  to  friends  and 
relatives,  and  started  for  their  new  home. 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening  in  midsummer, 
and  the  moon,  just  coming  up  from  behind 


THE   FIRST    QUARREL.  189 

the  hills,  silvered  earth,  sea,  and  air,  with 
her  mellow  light,  and  beautified  all  things, 
even  the  meanest,  with  her  holy  presence. 
The  calmness  of  the  evening  hour,  its  silent 
ly  descending  dews,  its  balmy  air,  on  which 
thousands  of  wild  flowers  had  flung  their 
fragrance ;  the  merry  dancing  of  the  ocean 
waves,  by  whose  side  their  route  lay,  which, 
crested  with  moonlight,  now  came  up  with 
muffled  feet,  almost  to  the  wheels  of  the  car 
riage,  and  then  shrunk  back,  as  in  fear  —  all 
this  conspired  to  deepen  the  religious  and 
blissful  emotions  of  their  hearts,  which  had 
been  awakened  by  the  vows  they  had  just 
spoken  at  the  marriage  altar.  Of  the  respon 
sibilities  connected  with  their  new  relation 
ship,  of  its  perplexities  and  cares,  they 
thought  not  now ;  but  rather  of  the  delights 
of  their  wedded  life,  and  of  the  long,  un 
counted  days  of  bliss  that  lay  stretched 
before  them  in  the  future  —  a  very  land  of 
promise.  The  deepest  tenderness  was  in 
their  hearts,  and  the  most  implicit  faith  in 
each  other ;  while  aspirations  after  high  and 
good  things,  that  always  come  to  us,  in  a 
measure,  when  we  are  happiest,  grew  strong 
within  them. 

In  pleasant  and  affectionate  converse  they 


190  THE    FIKST    QUARREL. 

beguiled  the  short  hours  of  their  ride,  until 
they  reached  the  tasteful  residence  that 
Hamilton  had  fitted  up  for  his  bride.  Then 
the  beautiful  eyes  of  Anna  Hamilton  bright 
ened  anew  with  delight,  and  her  heart  dilated 
with  warmer  affection,  as  she  witnessed  around 
her  the  proofs  of  love  her  husband  bore  her. 
The  utmost  deference  had  been  paid  to  her 
wishes  in  the  arrangement  of  their  home,  and 
the  greatest  regard  manifested  not  only  for 
her  tastes,  but  even  for  her  slightest  prefer 
ences.  The  very  pictures  which  she  had 
admired  at  an  exhibition  of  paintings,  looked 
down  upon  her  from  the  walls ;  her  favorite 
authors,  daintily  bound  and  embellished,  lay 
upon  the  parlor  table ;  her  choicest  music  was 
upon  the  open  piano ;  the  plants  which  she 
most  carefully  cherished,  bloomed  upon  the 
flower  stand ;  the  furniture  was  of  the  style 
that  she  would  have  selected,  and  even  the 
hangings  of  the  walls,  and  the  drapery  of  the 
windows,  were  of  that  delicate  shade  which 
would  have  been  her  own  choice.  Love,  grat 
itude,  and  pleasure,  throbbed  in  her  bosom, 
and  when  her  husband  turned  to  question 
how  her  taste  was  pleased  with  the  arrange 
ments  and  decorations  around  her,  she  buried 
her  face  on  his  shoulder  and  wept  tears  of  joy. 


THE   FIRST   QTJAREEL.  191 

Few  start  in  life  with  prospects  that  prom 
ise  more  of  happiness  than  did  Henry  and 
Anna  Hamilton.  They  were  not  wealthy, 
but  riches  and  happiness,  as  all  the  world 
know,  are  far  from  indissoluble,  and  they 
were  in  those  "  easy  circumstances  "  where 
dwells  the  most  of  enjoyment.  Both  had 
been  carefully  educated,  had  been  favored 
with  good  advantages,  had  been  accustomed 
to  intelligent  and  refined  society,  both  were 
young,  in  good  health,  were  full  of  life,  and 
each  was  devotedly  attached  to  the  other 
To  the  world  generally,  the  marriage  seemed 
an  admirable  one ;  predictions  of  the  happi 
ness  the  wedded  couple  would  realize,  were 
uttered  in  good  faith,  and  not  as  heartless 
words,  while  the  married  ones  themselves 
saw  before  them  only  a  cloudless  future. 

There  were  some,  however,  who  knew  the 
parties  better  than  they  knew  themselves, 
who  saw  in  their  characters  the  elements  of 
future  misery,  unless  both  maintained  the 
strictest  self-government.  Ardent,  warm 
hearted,  intelligent  and  pleasing,  Anna  Ham 
ilton  possessed  one  trait  of  character  that 
often  caused  pain  to  those  who  loved  her, 
and  suffering  and  deep  humiliation  to  herself. 
She  was  passionate,  or,  as  we  say,  quick  tern- 


192  THE    FIRST    QUARREL. 

pered.  Few,  out  of  her  own  family  circle, 
had  ever  witnessed  ebullitions  of  the  fiery 
spirit  that  generally  lay  dormant  in  her  bos 
om  ;  •  for  love  of  approbation,  if  not  self- 
respect,  restrained  her,  and  she  knew  that  it 
was  urilady-like  to  be  seen  in  a  passion. 
Moreover,  temptations  to  the  "  sin  that  so 
easily  beset"  her,  were  few  and  slight,  in 
the  circle  in  which  she  moved,  where  she 
was  seldom  thwarted,  but  was  surrounded 
by  those  who  aimed  to  please  her  rather  than 
otherwise.  But  in  the  bosom  of  her  own 
family,  and  with  those  intimate  and  familiar 
friends,  with  whom  she  observed  perfect  free 
dom  of  language  and  manners,  she  gave  way, 
when  provoked,  to  startling  and  frenzied 
bursts  of  passion,  as  terrific  as  the  wild  flash 
of  lightning  from  the  summer  cloud,  when 
she  would  recklessly  hurl  forth  words  that 
went  through  the  hearts  of  those  at  whom 
they  were  aimed,  with  keener  edge  than 
swords,  and  the  memory  of  which  rankled 
and  festered  in  the  bosom  long  after.  In  a 
moment  the  frenzied  girl  would  become  calm, 
and  then  she  would  give  worlds  to  unsay 
what  had  just  been  spoken  in  passion ;  would 
weep  bitterly  and  humbly  over  her  error, 
and  resolve  against  the  besetting  sin  to 
which  she  so  readily  yielded. 


THE   FIEST    QUAEKEL.  193 

Hamilton's  nature  was  somewhat  different. 
He  was  far  from  being  what  we  call  excita 
ble,  and  was  not  easily  roused  to  anger ;  but 
he  differed  most  from  his  wife,  in  that  while 
she  recovered  from  her  indignation  almost 
instantly,  his  endured  for  days ;  her  temper 
was  like  the  flint,  "which,  much  enforced, 
shows  a  hasty  spark,  and  straight  is  cold 
again ;"  while  his  was  the  fire  of  a  volcano, 
deep,  smouldering,  burning  and  inextinguish 
able  ;  he  was  not  easily  provoked,  but  then 
his  anger  endured  almost  forever.  He  was, 
to  be  sure,  slow  to  wrath,  but  he  was  also 
slow  to  forgive,  and  to  forget,  was  with  him 
impossible. 

How  would  these  dissimilar  and  strongly 
marked  characters  of  the  husband  and  wife 
harmonize  when  both  should  be  tried  by  the 
multifarious  cares,  duties,  trials,  and  perplex 
ities,  which  marriage  brings  more  or  less  to 
all  ?  Would  the  wife  be  led  by  her  love  for 
her  husband  to  practise  forbearance  and  self- 
government,  and  would  the  same  potent 
influence  incline  him  to  forgiveness?  Or, 
would  the  familiarity  of  constant  intercourse 
produce  carelessness  of  manners,  and  indif 
ference  to  pleasing,  so  that  the  latent  fire  of 
the  young  wife's  heart  would  burst  out 


194  THE   FIRST    QUARREL. 

against  her  husband,  when  vexed  by  him, 
causing  alienation  of  feeling,  and  temporary, 
if  not  life-long  estrangement  ? 

Days  and  weeks  passed  away,  and  the 
lives  of  the  twain  were  as  sunshiny  as  they 
had  dreamed  they  would  be.  Nothing  was 
as  dear  to  them  as  the  society  of  each  other 
their  recreations  and  amusements  were  in 
common,  and  their  home  was  indeed  a  para 
dise.  The  return  of  Hamilton  to  his  meals 
after  half  a  day's  absence,  was  welcomed  by 
his  wife  as  though  he  had  been  away  a 
twelve-month ;  and  their  leave-takings,  when 
he  departed  to  his  office,  were  as  affectionate 
as  though  he  were  bound  on  a  journey. 
Nothing  had  occurred  to  vex  her,  or,  if  it 
had,  love  or  a  desire  to  please,  had  prevent 
ed  her  manifesting  it. 

Months  passed,  and  the  fervor  of  their 
affection  had  somewhat  cooled,  though  there 
was  still  no  lack  of  love,  and  then  there  was 
frequently  evident  in  the  manner  of  Anna  a 
slight  degree  of  petulance,  which  caused  a 
seriousness  on  the  part  of  her  husband.  She 
had  become  accustomed  to  him,  and  had 
allowed  the  first  expressions  of  anger  to 
escape  her,  which,  though  slight,  were  to  be 
deprecated  as  the  prelude  to  more  violent 
feeling  and  utterance. 


THE   FIRST    QUAKREL.  195 

The  summer  had  passed  away,  and  winter 
had  succeeded  with  its  cold  and  ice,  its 
merry  sleigh-rides  and  lively  pleasure  par 
ties.  Heavy  falls  of  snow  had  been  followed 
by  clear,  cold  weather,  and  there  was  a  gen 
eral  turnout  of  all  classes  to  enjoy  the  exhil 
arating  pleasure  of  sleighing.  Day  after  day 
Hamilton  had  promised  his  wife  "  to  get  up 
a  sleighing  party,"  but  as  often  had  his  busi 
ness  prevented,  and  obliged  him  to  disap 
point  her.  At  last,  however,  after  a  week's 
vexatious  delay,  he  found  a  leisure  afternoon, 
and  so  he  rapidly  drummed  up  recruits  for 
the  evening's  frolic,  and  made  hasty  prepar 
ation  for  the  entertainment  and  comfort  of 
the  company. 

It  was  a  clear,  bright  moonlight,  the 
sleighing  was  glorious,  the  music  of  the 
jingling  bells  filled  the  frosty  air,  the  fleet 
tread  of  the  spirited  horses  over  the  frozen 
snow,  as  they  flew  here  and  there  and  every 
where  to  gather  up  the  company,  stirred  the 
blood  wildly  in  the  veins,  and  Anna  Hamil 
ton,  all  excitement,  and  arrayed  for  the  ride, 
sat  at  the  parlor  window,  straining  her  eyes 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  husband,  whom  she 
momentarily  expected.  But  the  slow  mo 
ments  moved  on,  and  still  he  came  not.  Just 


196  THE   FIEST   QTJAREEL, 

as  her  patience  was  tried  to  the  last  degree, 
and  when  she  had  given  up  all  hope  of  his 
coming  till  too  late  for  the  ride,  and  was 
straining  every  nerve  to  keep  back  the  tears 
that  almost  gushed  from  her  eyes,  Hamilton 
dashed  up  to  the  door.  Springing  from  his 
sleigh,  he  strode  up  to  the  steps,  and  burst 
into  the  house,  panting  and  out  of  breath. 

"Dear  me!  I've  hurried  like  the  mischief 
to  get  ready,  and  'here  I've  waited,  at  least 
an  hour  for  you,"  was  Anna's  petulant  greet 
ing.  •'  Pray,  what  kept  you  so  long  ?  I 
thought  you'd  never  come !" 

"I  began  to  think  so  myself,"  was  her 
husband's  reply.  "  Thompson,  the  agent  of 
the  Smithville  factories,  which  have  got  into 
some  difficulty,  has  been  at  my  office  all  the 
afternoon.  His  business  with  me  can't  be 
deferred,  and  it  will  occupy  me  till  late  in 
the  evening,  so  that  I  cannot  go  on  this  ride. 
It's  vexatious,  but  there's  no  help  for  it; 
'business  before  pleasure,'  you  know.  But 
I  have  arranged  it  so  that  you  can  go,  and 
you  must  frolic  enough  for  both  of  us.  So, 
come,  jump  into  the  sleigh,  for  there's  no 
time  to  lose." 

"I  shan't  stir  a  step,"  said  Anna,  throw 
ing  herself  into  a  chair,  her  brow  gathering 


THE   FIRST   QTJARKEL.  197 

darkness*,  ancl  her  eyes  flashing  fire.  "I 
should  think  you  believed  me  a  child,  to  be 
disposed  of  just  as  you  please.  I  should  like 
to  know  how  I  can  go  without  you  ?" 

"  Why,  easily  enough ;  I  will  drive  you  to 
the  hotel,  where  we  meet,  and  consign  you 
to  the  care  of  cousin  Frank,  who  is  going 
with  his  wife,  in  the  six  horse  sleigh ;  you 
are  not  large,  and  they  can  stow  you  away 
among  them  nicely." 

"  Well,  I  shan't  go ;  I  don't  relish  being 
packed  away  like  a  bale  of  cotton.  I'll  stay 
at  home,  as  I  always  have  to  now-a-days ;" 
and  with  a  most  ungracious  manner,  Anna 
began  to  tear  off  her  hat  and  cloak. 

"  Oh,  now,  do  go  Anna !"  said  Hamilton, 
coaxingly,  hardly  noticing  her  vexation.  "I 
wish  I  could  accompany  you,  but  you  see 
how  it  is.  Come,  you  must  go,  you  have  so 
long  anticipated  this  ride;  go,  just  to  please 
me." 

"  Just  to  please  you  /"  she  repeated,  turn 
ing  on  him  furiously.  "A  great  deal  you 
care  about  it ;  you  don't  care  a  straw  about 
my  gratification,  so  you  can  only  stay  in 
that  gloomy  old  office  of  yours  from  morning 
till  night.  I  should  not  care  a  half  penny  if 
it  were  to  burn  to  the  ground." 


198  THE    I'IRST    QUARREL. 

" Pshaw,  pshaw !  Anna!  now  you  are  un 
reasonable,"  said  Hamilton,  slightly  vexed. 
"I  am  so  much  confined,  that  for  my  own 
gratification,  I  should  like  this  ride,  and 
much  more  should  I  be  pleased  with  it,  if  I 
might  go  m  company  with  you.  You  are 
unkind  and  unreasonable  now." 

"  Oh,  fuss !  Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  am !  I 
was  warned  before  I  was  married,  of  the  ob 
scurity  to  which  wives  are  doomed,  but  I 
little  dreamed  that  I  should  be  as  completely 
buried  alive  as  I  am."  And  partly  from  dis 
appointment,  partly  from  anger,  she  burst 
into  tears. 

Although  her  words  had  irritated  Hamil 
ton,  yet  her  tears  moved  him,  and  he  sat 
down  beside  her,  and  putting  his  arm  about 
her  waist,  made  one  more  effort.  "Now, 
don't  cry,  Anna,  dorft  I  beg  you.  You  had 
better  go  on  this  ride,  you  will  be  happier 
than  to  stay  here  alone.  After  I  get  through 
with  Thompson,  I  will  drive  on  and  meet 
you,  and  perhaps  may  be  able  to  take  supper 
with  you.  But  don't  cry  so,  for  I  cannot 
bear  to  see  you  unhappy." 

Anna,  however,  was  thoroughly  angry, 
and  her  husband's  pleas,  instead  of  calming, 
only  made  her  more  passionate.  She  seemed 


THE   FIRST    QUARREL.  199 

determined  to  rouse  him.  Shaking  off  his 
arm  contemptuously,  she  said  with  great  bit 
terness,  "  Pray,  don't  use  any  more  of  what 
Sam  Slick  calls  <  soft  sawder.'  If  you  would 
speak  the  truth,  you  would  say  you  are  sorry 
you  are  encumbered  with  a  wife  to  claim  the 
time  you  prefer  to  devote  to  musty  law 
books,  and  dull  old  men,  and  quarrelsome 
people.  I  don't  believe  a  word  about  this 
visit  of  Thompson ;  it's  all  fudge !  But  if  I 
ever  ask  again  any  favor  of  you,  I  hope  you 
will  be  just  as  obliging  as  you  have  been  now 
—  and  refuse  me  outright;  that  will  save 
you  the  trouble  of  inventing  excuses.  I  only 
wish  I  was  Anna  Hastings  once  more ;  I'd 
see  if  I'd  peril  my  happiness  for  the  soft 
speeches  of  any  man  living." 

This  angry  speech,  so  undeserved^  so  un 
just,  cut  Hamilton  to  the  very  soul.  With 
drawing  his  arm  as  though  a  viper  had  stung 
him,  and  starting  to  his  feet,  he  stood  for  an 
instant,  transfixed  with  astonishment,  gazing 
on  his  wife;  and,  then,  without  uttering  a 
word,  he  left  the  house,  jumped  into  his 
sleigh,  and  his  wife  saw  him  drive  away,  like 
one  mad,  the  buffalo  streaming  out  on  the 
wind  behind  him. 

But  scarcely  had  he  closed  the  door  behind 


200  THE    FIRST   QUAEEEL. 

him,  when  an  entire  revulsion  of  feeling  took 
place  in  the  bosom  of  his  wife,  and  she  bit 
terly  repented  the  rash  words  she  had  just 
uttered.  She  would  have  given  worlds 
could  she  have  recalled  them.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  he  had  seen  her  in  a  passion, 
and  she  feared  that  it  would  alienate  him 
from  her  forever.  The  current  of  her  feel 
ings  instantly  "took  another  direction,  and 
she  passed  from  the  frenzy  of  anger  to  the 
most  extravagant  grief.  Pacing  the  floor 
hurriedly,  she  wrung  her  hands,  upbraiding 
herself  bitterly,  and  wept  wildly  and  hysteri 
cally.  Such  violent  emotion  soon  wears 
itself  out,  and  before  her  husband  had  re 
turned,  Anna  had  become  comparatively 
calm,  though  she  was  entirely  undecided  as 
to  the  course  she  would  pursue.  At  one  mo 
ment,  she  resolved  to  acknowledge  her  error 
to  her  husband  as  soon  as  he  entered  the 
house,  and  to  sue  for  his  forgiveness,  promis 
ing  never  again  to  yield  to  an  angry  spirit; 
but  the  next,  she  shrank  from  humbling  her 
self,  and  concluded  to  let  time  wear  away 
the  impression  of  this  unhappy  evening. 
While  thus  undecided  Hamilton  came  in. 
The  heart  of  his  wife  throbbed  so  tempestu 
ously,  that  it  almost  suffocated  her,  tears 


THE   FIRST    QUARREL.  201 

blinded  her  eyes,  and  she  trembled  like  an 
aspen,  but  did  not  speak.  Neither  did  he, 
but  sitting  down  calmly  by  the  table,  he 
turned  the  lamp  to  get  a  better  light,  drew  a 
newspaper  from  his  pocket,  and  began  to 
read.  Several  times  Anna  essayed  to  speak, 
but  her  voice  died  away  in  her  throat,  and 
so  she  sat  by  the  grate  silently,  shading  her 
eyes  with  her  hand,  and  rocking  nervously. 
An  hour  passed  in  this  uncomfortable  man 
ner,  and  then  Hamilton  laid  down  his  paper, 
and  taking  a  lamp,  made  his  way  to  his 
chamber. 

This  abrupt  way  of  retiring  was  very  dif 
ferent  from  his  habit  generally;  and  Anna 
listened  increduously  to  his  retreating  foot 
steps,  till  she  heard  him  close  the  door  of  his 
chamber,  and  then,  in  an  agony  of  remorse 
and  grief,  she  threw  herself  upon  the  sofa, 
and  wept  uncontrollably.  How  vividly  came 
to  her  remembrance  the  warnings  of  her 
mother,  who  had  bidden  her  beware  .of  her 
first  quarrel  with  her  husband !  Could  she 
ever  hope  to  prop'tiate  him,  whom  she  knew 
to  be  slow  to  anger,  but  almost  unappeasa 
ble,  when  offended?  Hours  passed  away, 
and  the  fire  burned  out  in  the  grate,  and  the 
lamp  emitted  but  a  feeble  light  ^-  but  Anna 

14 


202  THE    FIEST    QTJAKKEL. 

heeded  neither  the  increasing  coldness  of  the 
room,  nor  the  waning  light ;  she  was  absorbed 
in  bitter  thought,  in  dreadful  self-reproach, 
and  most  harrowing  fear.  She  wept,  till  she 
could  weep  no  longer,  and  exhausted  by  the 
violence  of  her  feelings,  she  sunk  into  slum 
ber,  broken  and  uneasy,  and  terrified  by 
dreams.  When  she  woke,  the  sun  was  pour 
ing  into  the  half  open  shutter,  violent  pain 
was  in  her  head,  she  was  benumbed  with 
cold,  stiff  and  weary.  As  soon  as  she  com 
prehended  how  she  came  there,  and  recalled 
the  unhappy  events  of  the  evening  before, 
she  rose,  and  staggered  towards  the  door, 
with  the  intention  of  going  to  her  husband, 
and  throwing  herself  on  his  bosom,  to  seek 
reconciliation  with  him. 

But  at  the  very  moment  her  hand  rested 
on  the  door  knob,  she  heard  his  footsteps  on 
the  stairs.  "  He  will  surely  come  into  the 
parlor,"  thought  the  poor  wife,  "  for  he  will 
see  that  I  have  not  been  in  bed,  and  then  I'll 
ask  forgiveness."  But  no  —  he  passed  on 
through  the  hall,  turned  the  key  in  the  front 
door,  and  went  out,  not  even  turning  to  look 
towards  the  parlor  windows.  He  had  misun 
derstood  the  cause  of  his  wife's  passing  the 
night  in  the  parlor,  and  thinking  it  but 


THE   FIRST   QUARREL.  203 

another  manifestation  of  her  anger,  was  him 
self  incensed  by  it,  and  left,  purposely  avoid 
ing  her,  and  resolved  not  to  return  till  night. 
Anna  ran  to  the  window  to  gaze  after  him, 
and  even  tapped  on  the  glass,  almost  invol 
untarily,  to  be  sure,  hoping  to  arrest  his 
attention,  but  he  did  not  hear,  and  went  on. 
And  again  was  the  miserable  wife  plunged 
into  fresh  sorrow,  and  almost  into  despair; 
she  struck  her  clenched  hands  together  wild 
ly,  and  walked  the  floor  rapidly,  not  knowing 
what  to  do.  For  a  few  moments  she  aban 
doned  herself  to  utter  despondency,  and 
almost  wished  to  die. 

Suddenly,  a  bright  thought  flashed  into 
her  mind;  her  husband  would  soon  return 
to  breakfast,  and  she  would  therefore  make 
everything  pleasant  for  his  coming,  and  then 
the  breach  between  them  should  be  healed. 
Immediately  she  went  to  work  upon  this  sug 
gestion;  and  though  her  head  ached  to  burst 
ing,  and  the  blood  ran  in  her  veins  like  fire, 
she  hurried  to  the  kitchen,  and  assisted  Ellen 
to  broil  the  beef  steak,  to  bake  the  lightest 
of  biscuit,  and  to  make  clear  and  delicate 
flavored  coffee ;  and  having  arranged  her 
hair  according  to  his  taste,  and  dressed  in 
the  morning  gown  that  was  his  especial  fan- 

14N 


204  THE    FIRST    QUARREL. 

^  cy,  she  went  to  the  breakfast  room  to  wait 
his  return. 

But  alas!  the  breakfast  became  cold  on  the 
kitchen  hearth,  and  the  hands  of  the  clock 
moved  on  towards  noon,  and  Henry  Hamil 
ton  was  still  an  absentee  from  his  home,  as 
he  had  resolved  in  the  morning  when  he  left* 
It  was  a  dreadful  day  to  Anna.  The  hours 
went  by  like  years.  Noon  came,  and  then 
slowly,  slowly  came  on  the  night,  and  she 
had  not  seen  her  husband.  In  vague  fear, 
in  terrible  suffering,  in  alternate  watching 
and  weeping,  she  spent  the  long  day.  As 
night  came  on,  all  courage  and  hope  forsook 
her,  and  she  yielded  to  the  physical  suffering 
which  she  had  been  combatting  while  hope 
was  in  her  heart.  She  had  taken  a  heavy 
cold  the  night  before,  sleeping  on  the  sofa, 
and  the  blood  coursed  wildly  through  her 
frame,  while  the  pain  in  her  head  almost 
made  her  delirious.  Not  a  morsel  of  food 
passed  her  lips  during  the  day,  and  faint  and 
heart-sick,  weak  and  hopeless,  she  groped 
her  way  to  her  chamber.  She  felt  too  ill  to 
undress,  and  was  reluctant  to  come  in  con 
tact  with  the  domestics,  in  her  present  state ; 
and  she  therefore  sank  on  the  bed,  in  the 
cold,  fireless  apartment,  when,  from  exhaus- 


THE   FIRST    QUARREL.  205 

tion  and  illness,  she  was  soon  lost  in  dis 
turbed  slumber. 

At  the  usual  hour  Hamilton  returned  home, 
and  not  finding  his  wife  below,  he  sought 
their  room.  He  ascended  the  stairs,  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  door  handle,  and  was  about 
to  enter;  and  then  he  recalled  her  angry 
words  to  him,  her  absence  from  their  room 
the  night  previous,  and  turning  haughtily 
away,  he  said  to  himself,  "  No ;  I'll  let  her 
get  over  her  anger  in  such  time  and  way  as 
she  pleases,"  and  entering  another  chamber, 
laid  down  for  the  night.  Had  he  entered  his 
own  room,  and  seen  his  suffering  wife,  lying 
on  the  bed  in  burning  fever,  unshielded  from 
the  biting  cold  of  the  night  save  by  her  ordi 
nary  clothing,  tossing,  turning,  starting  and 
moaning  in  her  slumber,  her  eyes  inflamed 
by  weeping,  and  the  veins  of  her  temples 
swollen  out  like  cords,  he  would  have  pur 
sued  a  different  course.  He  was  now  acting 
under  a  cruel  mistake. 

Anna  slept  on  until  midnight,  and  then  she 
awoke.  The  lamp  was  burning  dimly  on  the 
table,  the  air  of  the  room  was  chilling,  the 
dreadful  pain  in  her  head  was  more  violent, 
the  very  flesh  seemed  burning  off  her  bones 
with  the  intense  fever  that  was  upon  her, 


206  THE    FIRST    QUARREL. 

her  husband  had  not  yet  returned,  as  she 
thought,  and  feebly,  hardly  knowing  why, 
she  again  went  down  to  the  parlor.  All  was 
still,  the  servants  were  asleep,  the  house  fas 
tened  for  the  'night  —  all  seemed  at  rest  and 
quiet,  but  herself.  She  sat  down,  and  tried 
to  think  how  she  ought  to  act.  She  believed 
that  her  husband  would  never  return,  that  he 
had  forsaken  her,  and  that  she  should  never 
again  see  him;  and  connected  with  this 
dreadful  fact  of  what  she  deemed  his  deser 
tion,  was  a  vague  idea,  which  floated  through 
her  mind,  that  she  ought  not  to  remain  alone, 
now  that  her  husband  had  forsaken  her;  that 
she  must  go  away  somewhere  where  she  had 
friends,  now  that  the  one  friend  dearest  to 
her  on  earth,  had  failed  her.  But  her 
thoughts  wandered,  she  could  hardly  tell  at 
times,*  even  where  she  was,  she  could  lay  no 
plans,  and  going  from  one  room  to  another, 
now  lying  on  the  sofa,  now  holding  her 
throbbing  head,  moaning  and  weeping,  she 
passed  the  time  till  daylight.  A  coach  rat 
tling  by,  on  its  way  to  the  railroad,  freighted 
with  passengers  for  the  morning  train,  arous 
ed  her  to  consciousness.  The  sight  of  the 
carriage,  whose  load  of  passengers  and  bag 
gage  told  its  destination,  brought  thoughts 


THE    FIRST    QUARREL.  20*7 

of  home  to  her  half-crazed  brain,  and  she  re 
membered  her  mother,  and  immediately,  her 
determination  was  formed.  "  Yes,"  she  mur 
mured  to  herself,  "  I'll  go  to  my  mother !  a 
mother  never  forsakes !  a  mother  never  ceases 
to  love !  never !  I'll  go  home  to  my  mother  1" 
And  putting  on  her  hat  and  cloak,  which  lay 
in  the  parlor  where  she  had  left  them,  on  the 
night  of  her  disappointment  about  the  sleigh- 
ride,  she  went  out  into  the  street.  Fortu 
nately  a  hackney  coach  came  along,  by 
which  she  obtained  conveyance  to  the  depot, 
for  in  her  disordered  state  of  mind  and  body, 
she  would  have  failed  to  reach  it  on  foot. 
The  fever  that  had  settled  in  her  system 
raged  more  violently,  and  when  she  reached 
her  father's  house,  racked  with  pain,  burning 
with  fever,  faint  from  exhaustion,  wild  in  her 
manner,  and  incoherent  in  her  language,  they 
sent  in  alarm  for  a  physician,  and  despatched 
a  messenger  in  the  afternoon  train  for  her 
husband. 

Henry  Hamilton  was  as  startled  by  the 
message  that  summoned  him  to  the  bed  of 
his  sick  wife,  as  though  a  thunderbolt  had 
fallen  at  his  feet.  He  had  believed  her  at 
home,  sulking  in  her  chamber,  and  had  work 
ed  himself  into  a  deep  passion  with  her,  for 


208  THE    FIRST    QUARREL. 

retaining  so  long  her  displeasure  at  a  mere 
disappointment,  and  fortified  by  his  anger, 
had  held  himself  entirely  aloof  from  her  for 
the  last  two  days.  How  was  he  startled  and 
conscience-smitten  to  learn  the  truth,  to  hear 
from  the  trembling  lips  of  her  brother  that 
she  was  at  her  father's  house,  tossing  wildly 
on  a  sick  bed  in  the  delirium  of  brain  fever, 
from  which  her  physician  feared  she  would 
never  recover !  He  delayed  not  a  moment, 
and  though  night  had  already  set  in,  he  hur 
ried  as  fast  as  the  fleetest  horses  could  carry 
him,  to  her  bedside. 

Agonized,  and  rent  with  contending  emo 
tions,  he  sat  beside  her,  day  after  day,  a  pale 
and  anxious  watcher,  while  she  seemed  lying 
at  the  grave's  mouth.  She  did  not  recognize 
him ;  but  in  the  wanderings  of  her  delirious 
fancy,  she  revealed  to  him  how  deeply  she 
loved  him,  and  how  much  she  had  suffered 
from  her  passion  and  his  treatment  of  her. 
Her  self-upbraidings ;  her  pathetic  appeals  to 
him  for  forgiveness ;  her  wild  woe  at  his  fan 
cied  desertio'n  of  her;  her  mournful  calls 
upon  her  mother  for  the  love  and  protection 
her  husband  had  withdrawn ;  all  this  pierced 
his  heart,  and  his  hours  of  watching  were 
hours  of  almost  ceaseless  prayer  for  the  pres- 


THE    FIRST    QUARREL.  209 

ervation  of  that  life  now  doubly  dear  to  him, 
and  which  he  resolved  ever  after  to  beautify 
and  bless  with  his  forbearance  and  affection. 

Those  earnest  and  penitent  prayers  were 
heard  in  heaven,  and  slowly  Anna  Hamilton 
emerged  from  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death,  to  consciousness  and  convalescence. 
She  awoke  to  reason,  to  find  her  husband 
hanging  tenderly  and  anxiously  over  her, 
with  affection  in  his  eyes,  and  gratitude  in 
his  heart,  and  to  witness  tears  of  joy  rain 
down  his  pallid  cheek  at  her  recognition  of 
him.  Feeble  as  an  infant,  she  could  not 
obey  her  first  impulse  to  twine  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  and  plead  for  pardon,  but 
deep  bliss  thrilled  her  being,  as  he  laid  his 
cheek  to  hers,  and  forbidding  her  to  speak, 
breathed  in  her  ear  not  only  love,  pardon, 
and  reconciliation,  but  prayers  for  forgive 
ness  for  his  own  sin  against  her,  and  renew 
ed  vows  to  ever  love  and  cherish  her,  and  to 
abjure  the  revengeful  and  obdurate  spirit 
that  had  caused  them  both  so  much  suffering. 

Nor  were  those  vows  made  in  the  hours  of 
sickness  and  sorrow,  forgotten  in  health  and 
happiness.  The  consequences  of  their  first 
quarrel  were  most  salutary  to  both;  they 
were  taught  by  them  a  lesson  of  forgiveness 


210  THE    FIRST    QUARREL. 

and  forbearance  that  was  never  forgotten; 
and  the  memory  of  them,  in  after  life,  acted 
as  a  Mentor,  when  angry  words  rose  to  their 
lips,  and  a  tempest  of  wrath  was  beginning 
to  gather  in  their  bosoms. 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  SKY. 


"  God  keeps  a  niche  in  heaven  to  hold  our  idols." 

She  was  our  first  and  fairest,  and  I  worshiped  her 
in  pride, 

And  from  death's  sway  to  ransom  her,  I  would  my 
self  have  died ; 

For  I  loved  the  holy  beauty  that  on  her  young 
brow  gleamed, 

And  the  earnest  gaze  of  softness  that  from  her 
bright  eyes  streamed. 

I  drank  the  broken  melody  of  her  half-spoken  words, 
As  she  saog  at  morn  and  evening,  when  sing  the 

little  birds; 
And  I  thought  among  the  angels  could  none  so 

beauteous  be: — 
Oh,  the  life  of  that  frail  being  was  every  thing  to 

me! 

But  my  heart  grew  faint  with  anguish  that  smote 

it  to  its  core, 
"When  they  bore  her  from  my  bosom,  to  nestle  there 

no  more; 
I  looked  upon  her  shrouded  for  her  long  night's 

dreamless  rest, 


212  THE    TEMPLE    OF   THE    SKY. 

Her  white  hands  folded  gently  on  the  marble  of  her 
breast. 

My  soul  was  bowed  within  me,  but  I  murmured  no 

complaint, 
No  bow  of  promise  in  my  sky  did  hope  essay  to 

paint : 
I  daily  made  a  pilgrimage  to  where  my  darling 

slept, 
And  the  little  spot  was  moistened  with  bitter  tears 

I  wept. 

There  came  a  dewy  twilight  hour,  and  clouds  like 

snow-wreaths  pale, 
Threw  o'er  the  moon  advancing  slow,  a  graceful 

misty  veil; 
My  heart  was  emptied  of  all  joy,  and  my  palsied 

tongue  was  still, 
And  there  brooded  o'er  me,  raven-like,  a  hopeless 

sense  of  ill. 

But  there  sudden  glowed  around  me,  a  subdued  and 
holy  light, 

Gentle  as  the  day's  declining,  solemn  as  the  hush 
of  night, 

Gladsome  as  the  morning's  brightness,  breaking 
pure  and  undefiled; 

And  within  the  softened  splendor,  stood  my  heaven- 
crowned  child. 

Like  a  breeze  of  summer  healing,  joy  went  sweep 
ing  through  my  frame, 


THE    TEMPLE    OF   THE    SKY.  213 

With  a  thrill  of  strong  affection,  fondly  I  pro 
nounced  her  name ; 

And  I  stretched  my  arms  towards  her,  as  to  draw 
her  to  my  breast, 

For  I  thought  my  love  might  win  her  from  the 
dreary  grave  to  rest. 

But  she  said  in  whispered  music,  "  Win  me  not  to 

thine  embrace! 
In  the  temple  of  the  Holy,  God  hath  given  your 

child  a  place: 
Where  the  brightly  vested  angels,  who  an  earthly 

eye  would  dim, 
Chant  the  music  writ  in   heaven,  a  divine   love 

breathing  hymn." 

"And  to  grace  this  beauteous  building,  from  the 

world  are  gathered  in, 
All  the  heart's  most  cherished  idols,  yet  unniarred 

by  touch  ot  sin; 
Fair  their  spirit-brows  are  gleaming,  in  their  holy 

homes  on  fiigh : — 
Thou  wilt  find  the  child  thou  lovest,  in  the  temple 

of  the  sky." 

Outward  swung  the  gate  of  heaven  in  the  rosy- 
tinted  air, 

And  their  eyes  were  beaming  earthward,  warm  with" 
love,  and  free  from  care; 

On  my  cheek,  I  felt  the  glancing  of  a  lightly-wafting 
wing, 

And  again,  on  golden 'hinges,  back  I  heard  the  por 
tal  swing. 


214  THE    TEMPLE    OF    THE    SKY. 

To  my  angel-child  I  turned  me,  but  my  spirit-guest 

had  flown, 
And  amid  the  faded  brightness,  I,  the  childless, 

stood  alone : 
But  there's  graven  on  the  tablets  of  my  loving, 

yearning  heart, 
That  amid  earth's  shrined  idols,  I,  in  heaven,  can 

claim  a  part. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MOONLIGHT. 


I've  tinged  the  fragrant  evening  air 
With  soft  and  heavenly  hue; 

I've  poured  a  wealth  of  mellow  light 
Along  the  sky's  deep  blue; 

And  silvered  o'er  the  sleeping  earth, 
Bedecked  with  gems  of  dew. 

I  bowed  to  see  the  giddy  dance 
That's  wreathed  by  billows  white, 

And  as  my  smile  stole  o'er  the  sea, 
They  gave  it  back  as  bright; 

And  on  the  brow  of  each  young  wave, 
I  left  a  star  of  light. 

And  through  the  dense  and  tangled  green, 

That  towering  forests  twine, 
I  sent  a  brightly  gleaming  ray, 

Amid  its  gloom  to  shine; 
It  seemed,  as  downward  far  it  fell, 

Like  jewel  in  a  mine. 

I  placed  a  diamond,  large  and  bright 

On  every  mountain's  crest; 
I  lit  the  dew-drop  hid  within 

The  timid  floweret's  breast ; 
And  like  a  blessing,  laid  my  smile, 

On  verdant  fields  to  rest. 


216          THE    SONG    OF    THE    MOONLIGHT. 

And  where  the  low- voiced  evening  wind, 

Was  lifting  in  its  play 
The  snowy  folds  that  draped  a  couch, 

I,  noiseless,  winged  my"  way ; 
And  then  I  kissed  the  parted  lips 

Of  her,  who  dreaming  lay. 

And  round  that  fair  child's  holy  brow, 

I  twined  a  halo  bright; 
For  o'er  her  bowed  a  shining  one 

In  robes  of  heavenly  white ; 
And  dazzling  was  the  crown  he  wore 

Of  warm  and  softened  light. 

And  well  I  knew  his  mission  was 
To  take  that  child  to  heaven; 

For  this  my  crown  of  moonbeams  pale 
About  her  brow  was  given; 

'Twill  fade  when  worn  above  the  sky, 
As  twilight  fades  at  even. 

But  lo!  the  rosy-footed  morn 

Unlocks  the  eastern  sky; 
And  crimson  rays,  with  golden  blent, 

Athwart  the  azure  fly; 
And  sweet  the  morning  chime  that  floats, 

From  arch  to  arch  on  high. 

And  so  my  mission  endeth  now; 

I  seek  the  sloping  west; 
Gath'ring  this  thin  and  misty  fold, 

Of  clouds  about  my  breast, 
As  calmly  as  departing  saint, 

I'm  sinking  to  my  rest. 


